The Valley of the Shadow, Part 2
by Mary Catherine Marshall
Summary: The Mother Superior Tales continue ...


"I am ready to leave!" the slight, blond Russian bellowed, throwing his water glass across the hospital room. "I am discharged and I am leaving!" His nurse, new to UNCLE and the typical behavior of one pissed-off Russian fled the room in tears.

Illya sat heavily on the bed and massaged his leg, silently cursing the heavy cast that kept him from making his escape. The door opened silently and Charlie leaned against the frame.

"Here we were, worried that the 'real Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin'," her fingers making quotation marks in the air, "would be lost." She pushed away from the door and entered his room. "Should've known better." He almost looked properly chastised. Almost.

"I am ready to go." She smiled at the petulant tone of voice.

"And _we're_ ready for you to go, Illya," she said gently, sitting next to him. "As your personal physician, friend, and next door neighbor, I am duty bound to remind you that we're not finished." He glowered at her. She smiled. "This is something of a day-pass, Blue-eyes. I figure a little time away from here can't hurt."

Illya sighed and then offered a sweet smile, something not often seen. "My apologies, Charlie. I am ill humored at the moment; eager to see my children, live in my house, and sleep with my wife." Charlie chuckled.

"She didn't tell you, did she?" Illya blinked in surprise.

"Something other than the fact she was pregnant? What?"

"There's been a little renovation to the digs while you were away." Charlie patted his arm and helped him up. "You'll love it. And, if you don't, well, you can always share a room with Tony."

* * *

The black UNCLE sedan pulled slowly to a stop, the young and efficient agent in the front seat leaping out to open the door for Illya, who scowled.

"I am perfectly capable of opening a car door and exiting without assistance." The young agent did not give way.

"With respect, sir, I am ordered to see to your safe arrival; not only at this address, but also to your apartment." The scowl deepened.

"Thank you, Agent Duvan." Illya cringed inwardly. Emerson had caught him. "I'll take him from here." She offered the young agent a blinding smile and took Illya by the arm. "Be nice, Nikala. He's only following my orders." She paused. "And, the orders of Alexander and 'Pasha." They walked slowly into the lobby where the rest of the UNCLE team greeted them warmly. Once in the elevator, Emerson frowned at her husband.

"Please, in future, be nice to the security team," she ordered, glaring at him. "Those guys have their hands full dealing with me, Charlie, and seven little kids. They don't need to deal with you, too." He dropped his eyes and she nearly softened a little. Very little.

"My apologies, Em. I have been … difficult … of late." He raised his eyes and offered a grin. "Perhaps I am not fully myself." She giggled.

"Diffficult? You are impossible!" The elevator door opened just as the apartment door flew open. Four Kuryakin kids raced to meet them. Alexi rested in Cav's arms.

"Papa isn't 'mpossible, Mama," Nicky cautioned, adopting his father's glare. "He's right here!" Anushka rolled her eyes.

"Not, _invisible_, Nicky! _Impossible_. And, _you're_ impossible," she sneered. Nicky pouted for a split second and then hugged Illya's good leg.

"We missed you, Papa! A whole lot!" The girl's nodded their agreement. "You gonna stay for awhile, Papa?" Illya leaned on Em, his eyes clouding. He lifted Nicky into his arms, kissing the little boy and holding him close.

"Da, Nicky, da." His voice was thick with emotion, his eyes carried over the children, and he smiled. "You have all grown so much! We shall have to stop feeding you, I think!" Nicky slipped to the floor and Tasha took Illya's hand. Emerson took Alexi.

"We have a surprise for you, Papa! All kinds of special things …" she caught Anushka's warning look. "Lean on me and I'll help you."

Illya paused in the new entry hall, his eyes following the staircase upward. "This is a 'little renovation', Em?" he asked, taking in the new design.

"Nicky needed his own room, Cav and Miriam needed more space, and we've got our guest rooms back." Illya shook his head.

"_You_ are impossible."

"Only when absolutely necessary," she laughed. "Close your eyes and I'll lead you into the living room." He closed his eyes tightly and listened to his children scurry through the etched glass doors. Em took his arm. "They've worked very hard on this, Nikala, the children, Cav, and Miriam. Enjoy it!"

Illya opened his eyes to the light filled room. The floor to ceiling windows that had always impressed him now soared another 20 feet. Above the living room, a gallery curved in a 'U' shape revealing an open hallway decorated with photographs of the children, paintings, and lithographs. Hand drawn and lettered banners hung from the railing interspersed with bunches of balloons.

"Welcome home, Papa!" the children yelled, clapping their hands in delight. "We made them all, Papa, just for you!" Tia's voice was soft and sweet. Illya wiped a tear from his cheek.

"Beautiful," he whispered, lowering himself into a Morris chair, grateful that Em had not 'renovated' them. He basked in his children, kissing them, touching them, holding them in turn. "I have such beautiful, brilliant, talented children," he chuckled, his chair completely surrounded. Anushka pushed up a hassock and he rested his leg.

"That's not all, Papa," Anushka announced, grinning at her siblings. "We made presents … you missed Christmas … and Miss Miriam made a special lunch!" Illya kissed her hand and smiled.

"Which shall I do first? Open presents or eat lunch?"

"Presents first!" It was a unanimous decision. Nicky, Tia, and Tasha began pulling gaily wrapped boxes from behind the couch, dragging them to his chair.

Later, Emerson and Illya relaxed in the study. "If the Central Committee could see this, they'd revoke your membership in the Party," she said, combing her fingers through his long hair. He closed his eyes and relaxed.

"Thank you, Em, for all of this." She laughed.

"Like I had anything to do with this! The kids made the banners and Miriam cooked lunch. I was just the mistress of this three ring circus." He opened his eyes, now darkly serious.

"That is not what I mean, and you know it." She leaned down and kissed him.

"Yes, I do know what you mean." She glanced around the room, at the partner's desk and at the book lined shelves, enjoying the late summer breeze blowing through the open French doors. "We are blessed, Nikala. Extravagantly blessed." Illya sighed contentedly.

"Once this is finished, Nikala … once the deprogramming is over …" she paused, searching for words. "Have you ever given any thought …?" Illya sat up.

"No."

Alexi wailed his discontent and she sighed at Illya's immediate response. Pushing off the couch, she gave him a hand up and kissed his cheek. "Didn't think so."

* * *

Emerson watched Illya gently cradle Alexi, now momentarily quieted, again amazed that the same hands that functioned with such ruthless efficiency in the field so skillfully handled something as delicate as a newborn.

"He resembles you, Em," Illya said, tracing the shape of Alexi's lips, smiling as the baby opened his mouth to suckle. Emerson laughed.

"He has your instinct when it comes to food!" She smiled at Illya, so grateful that he was home even if only for a short time. "And, he has your scowl, not to mention your temper."

Illya graced her with said scowl. "He is an infant, Emerson. How can you possibly ascribe such personality traits to one so young?"

"He's clearly your son when he's wet and hungry!" Alexi's tiny face reddened, his lungs filled, and he announced his displeasure, again, with gusto. "You're on, Papa!"

Emerson deposited Alexi on the changing table, his tiny arms and legs flailing and his volume increasing by the second. Illya leaned against the changing table. "He is very loud," Illya observed. "How does such a small human create such a volume?"

"The lung capacity of a bull elephant," Emerson answered. "You take care of the south end and I'll get something to satisfy the northern regions."

She watched Illya deftly change the wet diaper, nappy as he called them, cooing to the baby and singing a sweet lullaby in Russian. Alexi quieted, his blue eyes riveted on Illya's face.

"He knows your voice, Nikala," she said, returning with a warmed bottle. "He knows your touch."

"I am his father," Illya noted, tucking Alexi into the crook of his arm and hobbling toward the rocker. His face clouded. "I am sorry that I was not with you, Em."

She kissed him lightly. "No apologies, Kuryakin," she said. "Remember that."

Illya smiled and settled in, balancing his cane against the crib and offering Alexi the bottle. The baby took the bottle hungrily, wrapping his small hand around Illya's little finger. "He is very strong, Em. And very hungry."

Emerson grinned. "Like I said; his fathers' son."

* * *

Two weeks later, Emerson and Illya appeared in Waverly's office, ready to listen to what was euphemistically named 'The Plan'.

"I believe that we all know one another," Waverly said, his pale blue eyes circling the table. "Miss Cates, Mr. Kuryakin, this gathering will discuss the research and the plan for Mr. Kuryakin's deprogramming."

Emerson sat near her boss and Illya took the chair next to hers. Their hands immediately joined a sign of support and concern. "Dr. McMurphey," Waverly said, "will you begin, please?"

Denis McMurphey, lead chemist, stood and clicked the remote on the slide projector. "This is the chemical quinuclidinyl benzilate (QNB), empirical formula C21H23NO3, full chemical name 1-azabicyclo2.2.2oct-3-yl α-hydroxy-α-phenylbenzeneacetate, an odorless incapacitating agent. Also know as BZ." Denis turned to his audience, noting the nodding of heads and obvious interest.

Emerson exchanged a quizzical look with Napoleon, who shrugged.

"BZ is a glycolate anticholinergic compound related to atropine, scopolamine, hyoscyamine, and other deliriants. Dispersal would be as an aerosolized solid, primarily for inhalation, or as agent dissolved in one or more solvents for ingestion or percutaneous absorption." Illya interrupted.

"I do not believe that I was exposed to aerosolized or percutaneous absorption," Illya commented. "Although I must admit that such a method of delivery would not have been impossible."

"Quite," Denis said. "Since you were working in a fully equipped lab, any or all of these mechanisms of delivery were possible and probable. However, we have reason to believe that your exposure came via ingestion." The red haired researched shrugged. "That is the information provided by Miss DuChein during interrogation."

Denis turned to Dr. Young. "Your turn, Harry."

Dr. Harry Young unfolded his lanky frame and took the remote control. "I'm going to talk about signs and symptoms," he said, fixing his gaze on Illya. "I want you to confirm or deny as we go along." Illya nodded.

"The Parasympathetic Nervous System effects of BZ are, in general, readily understood as those of understimulation of end organs and are qualitatively similar to those of atropine. Decreased stimulation of eccrine and apocrine sweat glands in the skin results in dry skin and a reduction in the ability to dissipate heat by evaporative cooling. The skin becomes warm partly from decreased sweating and partly from compensatory cutaneous vasodilatation; the patient becomes "red as a beet," as the body attempts to shunt a higher proportion of core-temperature blood as close as possible to the surface of the skin. With decreased heat loss, the core temperature itself rises." Dr. Young paused and looked at Illya. "Sound familiar?" Illya nodded.

"Under stimulation of other exocrine glands leads to xerostomia, dry mouth, thirst, and decreased secretions from lacrimal, nasal, bronchial, and gastrointestinal glands."

"I seemed to be thirsty constantly," Illya said, new understanding written clearly on his face. "I assumed that it was due to spending most of my time underground in temperature controlled environments."

"Decreased cholinergic stimulation of pupillary sphincter muscles allows alpha-adrenergically innervated pupillary dilating muscles to act essentially unopposed, resulting in mydriasis," Harry continued. "Similar effects on cholinergic ciliary muscles produce paralysis of accommodation. Classically, the patient is described as being "blind as a bat."

Napoleon chuckled. "Illya's always blind without his reading glasses," he commented, garnering a standard Russian Glare in response.

"The following bit of information may help explain Mr. Kuryakin's response to the first and second attempts at deprogramming. BZ typically raises the heart rate, depending on the dose of BZ, the heart rate falls to normal or may become slow. Either the peripheral vagal blockade has ceased or the stimulation of the vagal nucleus has occurred." Young glanced at Charlie. "This leads us to believe that Dr. Sherrill continued to administer BZ after Mr. Kuryakin was inpatient in medical."

"Bastard," Charlie muttered.

"BZ-exposed patients exhibit muscle weakness along with incoordination, heightened stretch reflexes, and ataxia, is probably due to the effects of BZ at Central Nervous System sites," Dr. Young continued.

"I did experience bouts of dizziness, even vertigo," Illya said, recalling how Angelique had steered him into the kitchen, insisting that he rest after their meal.

"CNS effects include a dose-dependent decrease in the level of consciousness, beginning with drowsiness and progressing through sedation to stupor and coma. The patient is often disoriented to time and place. This explains the reason for the episode that resulted in your stay in Thrush medical. "Disturbances in judgment and insight appear. Perceptual clues may no longer be readily interpretable, and the patient is easily distracted and may have memory loss, most notably short-term memory. Speech becomes slurred, and loss of inflection produces a flat, monotonous voice. Handwriting also deteriorates."

Emerson rolled her eyes and squeezed Illya's hand. "How would we be able to tell? When he's stressed, hell, when he isn't stressed, his handwriting is always a mess!"

"My penmanship is acceptable," Illya whispered, grinning at her. "Margaret has never complained."

Harry chuckled. "Back to the topic at hand. Semiautomatic behavior may also include disturbances in level of consciousness, misperceptions and difficulty in interpretation including delusions and hallucinations. Poor judgment and insight, i.e., denial of illness, impaired memory slurred speech, disorientation, ataxia, and variability expressed as quiet and /restless."

Charlie grinned at Illya. "Denial of illness is something that plagues all Section 2 agents, Harry. When asked how they are feeling, the standard answer is 'Fine'."

"Central nervous system mediated perceptual disturbances in BZ poisoning include both illusions, misidentification of real objects, and hallucinations, the perception of objects or attributes that have no objective reality. Hallucinations from BZ tend to be realistic, distinct, easily identifiable, often commonly encountered objects or persons, and panoramic." Dr. Young turned to his listeners. "Another prominent CNS finding in BZ poisoning is behavioral lability, with patients swinging back and forth between quiet confusion and self-absorption in hallucinations, to frank combativeness. Moreover, as other symptoms begin to resolve, intermittent paranoia may be seen."

Illya frowned. "I do not believe that I have exhibited intermittent paranoia, although this sort of work does tend to create what one might define as constant low-level paranoia."

"It's called 'survival instinct', Illya," Napoleon said. "Without it none of us in field service would live very long."

"I fully agree, Mr. Solo," Dr. Young said, grinning at the exchange. "And, I agree with Mr. Kuryakin. I have not noted any paranoia or hallucinations in my examinations. If I were to hazard a guess, I would conclude that Miss DuChein tweaked the BZ formula sufficiently to override those particular signs and symptoms."

"Mr. Solo," Alexander Waverly said, turning his gaze to his CEA, "has Miss DuChein admitted to tweaking the formula during the course of your interrogation?"

"No, sir, but we will pursue this line of questioning," Napoleon answered, suddenly looking forward to his next encounter with Angelique.

"I've got some new drugs that might help that process along," Denis said. Napoleon grinned at the offer.

Harry cleared his throat and picked up his report. "BZ may be dispersed in a variety of ways, as I noted earlier. Bioavailability via ingestion of particles 1 micrometre in size approximates 80, and 40 to 50, respectively, of a parenterally delivered dose of BZ. Following absorption, BZ is systemically distributed to most organs and tissues of the body. Its ability to reach synapses and neuromuscular and neuroglandular junctions throughout the body is responsible for its PNS effects, whereas its ability to cross the blood-brain barrier confers upon it the ability to cause CNS effects. Metabolism of BZ would be expected to occur primarily in the liver, which we have verified in Mr. Kuryakin through a liver function test, and with elimination of unchanged agent and metabolites in the urine, which we also verified."

Napoleon shifted in his seat and Waverly caught the action. "Perhaps a brief interlude is in order," Waverly suggested, rising from his chair. "Please, help yourselves to whatever you would like." He indicated the credenza laden with food and drink. "We will resume in 20 minutes."

Most everyone at the table moved toward the credenza, but Illya remained seated, distracted by the volume of information. Emerson rested her hand on his shoulder. "What can I bring for you, Nikala?"

Illya seemed startled, but recovered quickly and rose slowly. "A sandwich and a glass of vodka, please," he said, leaning on his cane. He moved stiffly away from the table, making a slow circuit of the office.

Emerson made her way to Dr. Young, collecting sandwiches, chips, and drinks on her way. "Harry," she asked, "is this reversible?"

Harry Young smiled down at her. "Dr. Marxer and I believe that it is, Em. But, believing it and accomplishing it are two different things. I think you'll have a clearer picture of the situation after she gives her report." She sensed Illya behind her and nodded her thanks.

"Ready for Round 2?" she asked, handing over his glass of vodka. He rubbed his forehead and she noticed the sheen of sweat. "Maybe this is too much, Nikala," she said, worry creasing her brow. "I think you need to rest."

He dropped his hand and glared at her. "I do not need to rest, Emerson!" His voice was sharp, his eyes like ice. "This is my life we are dealing with and I will not merely read the reports!"

"This is _our_ life we're dealing with. What happens to you happens to me … and to our children." Her voice low and angry softened a little. Seeing surprise mixed with concern in his face, she smiled gently. "I love you, Nikala, and I want you back."

He smiled, his blue eyes twinkling wickedly. "As do I, Em. Forgive me."

"Eat your sandwich, Cossack," she said, leading him back to their seats. He, as always, ate like a condemned man and helped himself to half of her sandwich. She smiled, grateful to see that at least part of his personality was still in place.

"If we might reconvene," Alexander Waverly said, retuning to his chair. "Dr. Marxer, please present your report."

Dr. Beatrix Marxer retrieved the remote control and the room lights dimmed. "While it may appear that the clinical course from BZ poisoning in Mr. Kuryakin's case might be irrelevant, due to the length of time from his first exposure to the present moment, I believe a review of the literature will be helpful." She glanced at the slide glowing above them. "BZ poisoning can be divided into the following four stages: Onset or induction characterized by parasympathetic blockade and mild CNS effects. The second phase characterized by stupor with ataxia and hyperthermia. The third phase in which full-blown delirium is seen but often fluctuates from moment to moment. And, the fourth phase, or resolution, characterized by paranoia, deep sleep, reawakening, and eventual reorientation." She glanced at Illya and smiled. "It is unfortunate that we were unable to observe our patient while BZ was being systematically dosed. However, Dr. Young, Dr. Charles, Dr. McMurphey, and I believe that some if not all of these events will be seen as deprogramming continues.

"What follows is a description of the differential diagnosis. While Mr. Kuryakin is currently rational and unconfused, we expect that he will experience periods of irrationality and confusion over a rather long period of time as we commence deprogramming. By that, I mean at least 24 hours, if not longer. We expect to see anxiety reactions as well as intoxication with a variety of agents, such as hallucinogenic indoles similar to LSD, cannabinoids such as the delta-9-tetrahydrocannabinol in marijuana, lead, barbiturates, and bromides. All of these conditions can lead to restlessness, lightheadedness with associated vertigo and ataxia, confusion, and erratic behavior with or without vomiting. Clues that specifically point to BZ or a related compound are the combination of anticholinergic PNS effects dehydration, increased core body temperature, concurrent compensatory cutaneous vasodilatation, and mydriasis. We also expect CNS effects of slurred and monotonous speech, perseveration, and vivid, realistic, describable hallucinations. We predict that the latter will decrease in size over time with the patient slipping into and out of delirium."

"How will you manage all of this?" Emerson asked, her voice betraying the tension she felt.

"I'll turn things over to Dr. Charles," BeBe said, nodding to Charlie. "She will describe our expectations and our planned medical intervention." Charlie took the remote control.

"Among the signs and symptoms we expect to see are restlessness, dizziness, failure to obey orders, confusion, erratic behavior, stumbling or staggering, dry mouth, tachycardia at rest, elevated temperature, flushing of the face, blurred vision, pupillary dilation, slurred or nonsensical speech, hallucinations, stupor and coma, irrational fear, distractability, elevated blood pressure, stomach cramps and vomiting, euphoric or unconcerned attitude, hypotension and/or dizziness on sudden standing, tremor, clinging or pleading, and decrease in disturbance with reassurance." She looked at Illya. "At this point, Illya, the cure may seem worse than the disease."

"I am not concerned," he said, finishing his sandwich and taking a large drink of vodka. "I believe that I am served by the finest medical team available." Emerson squeezed his hand.

"You should be aware, Illya, that physical restraint may be necessary. We don't want you be at risk from injuries caused by erratic behavior. Hyperthermia, I believe, is an even greater concern. Management of heat stress will be a priority. You may become comatose and experience serious cardiac arrhythmias and electrolyte disturbances, so we will monitor vitals and keep you hydrated." She smiled at Illya.

"Specific antidotal therapy in BZ poisoning is geared toward raising the concentration of acetylcholine in the synapses and junctions. Any compound that causes a rise in acetylcholine concentration can potentially overcome BZ-induced inhibition and restore normal functioning. The specific antidote of choice in BZ poisoning is the carbamate anticholinesterase physostigmine, which temporarily raises acetylcholine concentrations by binding reversibly to anticholinesterase on the postsynaptic or postjunctional membrane." Denis McMurphey raised his hand.

"Physostigmine is similar in many ways to pyridostigmine. Would you consider using it rather than physostigmine?" he asked.

Charlie shook her head. "Thank you, Denis. Good question. We would not use pyridostigmine because, while it is effective as a pre-exposure antidotal enhancer, it is not used for this purpose because the doses required cause vomiting through CNS mechanisms. In the case of BZ poisoning, a nonpolar compound such as physostigmine is used specifically because penetration into the brain is required in those individuals who already have CNS effects from BZ." Denis nodded his understanding.

"It is very effective and while it does not shorten the clinical course of BZ poisoning," she gave Illya a pointed look, "relapses will occur if treatment is discontinued prematurely. Which means, once we begin this course we will continue without interruption." She glanced at Emerson and continued. "So, while it might seem prudent to substitute a slow intravenous infusion for intramuscular injections, we are aware that IV infusion may lead to nerve-agent-like bradycardia. Too rapid infusion may cause arrhythmias, excessive secretions to the point of compromising his air way, and convulsions. We will begin with doses of 45 µg/kg IM and will titrate every 60 minutes to mental status. Constant monitoring of EEG, EKG, and vitals with labs will be augmented with mental status examinations hourly. As Illya improves, the dosage requirement will decrease."

The room fell silent as the screen disappeared and the lights returned to normal. Illya was as pale as she had ever seen him and she gave her most reassuring smile.

"Thank you all for your excellent report and plan," Waverly said, nodding to the medical staff and noting Illya's paleness. "I believe that we have some time available to us before a decision is necessary, am I correct?"

"Yes, absolutely," Bebe said, taking a quick glance at Illya. "Although I hasten to say that time is important. The sooner we begin treatment the sooner Illya will be free of this condition." She smiled at the young couple. "Perhaps you would be able to have your decision by tomorrow, yes?"

"Da," Illya answered, looking more than a little overwhelmed. "Yes," he corrected himself. "Em and I will discuss your plan and have our decision for you tomorrow morning."

Charlie, perched on the arm of Napoleon's chair, frowned. "We've dumped a huge amount of information on both of you. Tomorrow afternoon will be soon enough." She stood and stretched. "Anyway, we have to run one more check-list to make sure we have everything we need. So, let us know tomorrow afternoon."

Illya stared into space, seemingly unaware of Charlie's comments. Emerson touched his arm and he jerked in surprise. "Illya? Charlie says we can give our answer tomorrow afternoon, all right?"

"Sir, may we use your study?" Illya asked.

"By all means, young man," Waverly said, more than a little concerned for his agent. Illya took Emerson's hand and the disappeared into the study.

Illya faced Emerson, a look of resolve tinged with resignation on his face. "I have no other choice, Em. Do you agree?"

"A Hobson's choice, Nikala," she whispered, melting into his embrace.

* * *

Charlie, Bebe, Harry, and Denis retired to the procedure room and ran through the exhaustive check-list. Little over an hour later, they were finished.

"I don't know about you, but I'm ready for drinks and dinner," Charlie said, brushing an errant curl from her forehead. The group nodded. "And, no shop talk!" They all laughed.

Illya, Emerson, and Napoleon arrived shortly thereafter. Charlie thought that Illya's color had improved although he never relinquished Emerson's hand. Napoleon kissed his wife and grinned. "The Russian's hungry."

"There's an anomaly," Charlie said, dryly. "Shall we feed him or let him fend for himself?"

"Please, in the interest of my own well-being, feed him!" Emerson said, brushing Illya's cheek with a kiss.

"Del Vecchio's?" Charlie asked. Her question was answered by a mass exodus. She linked arms with Napoleon and followed the hungry horde.

Charlie's injunction against shop talk lasted no longer than it took the group to reach the elevator bank. She grinned, listening as Illya pepper Harry, Denis, and Bebe with a barrage of questions.

"I'm impressed, Mr. Kuryakin," Harry said, glancing at Charlie. "It's not often that I have a patient with the depth and breadth of understanding that you have. Of course, it's more than a little unsettling, too!"

Illya smiled, his hand still clutching Emerson's. "I have always found it to my benefit to make every effort at understanding any situation. This is no different."

Bebe's face reflected concern. "Forgive me, Illya, but I am not convinced that you understand the risks of our proposal."

"Quite the contrary, Dr. Marxer," Illya said, shaking his head. "The variables involved in this undertaking are considerable, as is the risk." He squeezed Emerson's hand. "Unfortunately, I have no other choice if I am to be returned to status as a field agent." He glanced at Emerson through his thick lashes. "If I am to return to being a father and husband." The elevator fell silent.

Emerson and Illya checked on the children assured that they were tucked into their beds and sound asleep. At the stairs, she kissed him and pulled at his pony tail. "Once you're back in the fold, Kuryakin, Alexander will insist on a haircut."

Illya grinned and touched his blond hair, now spilling down his shoulders. "It is getting rather long, even for me." She kissed him again.

"I rather like it longer," she said, returning his grin. "Very sexy, I think."

She followed him down the stairs, through the living room and dining room, and into the study. "Can I tempt you with a drink?" she asked, walking to the bar.

"Vodka, please," he answered, lowering himself into a leather wing chair and settling his leg onto the matching hassock. He watched her mix a vodka martini and then pour his drink. "I know that you agreed to pursue this plan, Em," he said, his eyes dark in the dim light. "But, are you sure?"

She handed him the nearly frozen vodka and knelt at his side. Leaving her drink on the side table, she took his hand. "No, moj vozl'ublennyj," (my beloved) she said, "I am not sure." She brushed his cheek and smiled. "Like I said, this is a Hobson's Choice. The lesser of two evils. While I'll take you any way I can get you, I know that you want your life back, exactly as it was before all of this began." She lifted her glass in a toast. "So, we do what we must."

"YA l'ubl'u Vas, Em. Serdce i dusha," (I love you. Heart and soul.) he said, emotion choking his voice. "Zajmites' l'ubov''u so mnoj, pozhalujsta." (Make love to me, please).

He downed his drink in one swallow and she finished her martini. "I thought you'd never ask," she said, taking his hand.

She helped him to the bedroom and began with his black, pencil thin tie. He reached for her and she slapped his hands. "This is my show, moj malen'kij shpion (my little spy). She moved to the buttons of his white, cotton shirt and slowly worked her way down.

"Em," he whispered, his voice soft and pleading.

"Don't whine, Cossack," she said, tugging his shirt from his pants and dropping it to the floor. Her nimble fingers unfastened his belt buckle and the button and then the zipper of his black trousers. Giving the pants a light push, they pooled at his feet. "Step out, please."

He rested his palms on her shoulders and stepped out of his trousers, keeping his eyes downcast. "Off with the tee shirt, moj seksual'nyj mal'chik (my sexy boy)." He pulled off the shirt and dropped it to the floor. She ran her fingertips down the center of his chest, making lazy circles in the fine golden hairs along the way. She stopped at the waist band of his boxers and grinned. "You can either surrender them now, or let me take them off after you're comfortable."

"I am comfortable now," he croaked, feeling the palms of her hands push beneath the thin fabric and caress his ass.

"Lgun," (liar) she chuckled, pushing him onto the bed. "Okay, let's do this the hard way." She helped him settle, removed his shoe and sock, and smiled. "Just the way I like my Russian men," she said, slowly lowering his boxers.

"How many Russian men have you had, so to speak?" he asked, gasping as the cool air of the room met with his growing erection. She frowned at his question.

"A gentleman never asks a lady such things, moj belokuryj zherebec."

"Blond stallion?" he asked.

"I'll call you what ever I want, Blondie!" She dropped her jacket on the floor and crouched next to him, her lips beginning a journey from the notch of his throat southward. He moaned.

"Em," he said, tugging her sweater free and reaching for the hem, "you are over dressed." She slapped his hands and laughed, pushing off the bed. In seconds, she stood naked before him.

"Better?" she asked, returning to her previous position.

"Much," he answered his voice barely a whisper.

"Not bad, uh?" she asked, patting her belly. "The kid's barely three weeks old and I'm back in shape."

"You are always in shape, " he murmured, his hands mapping her body from her nicely rounded breasts, down her ribs, the curve of her waist, and ending at the swell of her hips. "Krasivyj." (Beautiful). He pulled her down and his lips found her exquisitely sensitive nipples.

She moaned, dropping her head and looking at him through dark lashes. She rose above him, opening her legs, and taking the length of him within her. He matched her moan and pulled at her hips and plunging even deeper.

Emerson sought his mouth as his hands caressed her ass. She grinned. "Maybe having you on a long term assignment isn't such a bad idea after all," she whispered, nibbling on his delightful ear lobe. "The homecoming is almost worth it."

"Be quiet and love me," he growled, his eyes dark with desire. She moved forward and then resettled herself, feeling the soft skin of his balls against her ass. "Oh, Em …"

"Be quiet," she laughed, sensing the swelling in his balls and setting a pace guaranteed to drive him over the edge, and soon.

He brushed her nipples with the palms of his hands, watching the flush of sex spread across her face, neck, and chest. "Come, moj vozl'ublennyj, (my beloved), come for me." He felt the ripple in her belly and her body, pulling him in even deeper, trembled with the first spasms of her orgasm.

Illya followed her, arching his back, his hips matching her thrusts, ignoring the ache in his leg. She collapsed in his arms, her delightful giggle reverberating in his chest.

"Why are you giggling?" he asked, his voice and face serious.

"I always laugh when I'm ecstatic," she whispered, snuggling her head into the hollow of his shoulder, her fingers tracing random patterns on his chest. "God, you're good."

He chuckled. "So I have been told." She slapped his belly. "Ow!"

"Don't be such a sissy," she said, pushing up on her elbow. "And, who's told you were 'good', besides me?"

Illya turned his head and offered his most enigmatic smile. "You are not the only one with a past, Emerson."

She kissed him, hard and deep, her tongue invading his mouth as her hand found his quickly hardening cock. "I'll have Charlie add a 'truth serum' to the cocktail she's giving you tomorrow," she said, pulling away, breathless. "I have ways and means, Kuryakin!"

"You forget, moya l'ubimaya (my darling), I am a trained professional."

"As am I." She rose above him and dance began again.

Illya stirred at 6 a.m., awakening to the site of his wife sprawled next to him, her naked body barely covered by the sheet. She stirred as he kissed her neck lightly and slipped out of bed. In less than 20 minutes, he was showered, shaved, and dressed. Wrapping the cast took more time than he cared to count.

Mrs. Stein met him in the hallway with a mug filled with tea sweetened with raspberry jam. "You spoil me, madam," he said, leaning against the doorframe.

"You could do with a little fattening up, Mr. K.," she said, frowning at him. "I've made up some bagels and lox's." She handed him a plate and grinned. "Sit and eat up!"

Illya dutifully devoured his breakfast and finished a second cup of tea. "Thank you, Mrs. Stein," he said, heading toward the door. "If Em asks after me refer her to the bathroom mirror." Mrs. Stein heard the jangle of keys and the latch of the door. Shaking her head, she left the dirty dishes in the sink and returned to setting the breakfast table.

An hour later, the Kuryakin apartment was a beehive of activity. The children trooped in, dressed for school, arguing and jousting with each other. "Sit!" Mrs. Stein ordered. "Breakfast is served." Emerson appeared in the door way wearing her robe.

"Haven't seen the laird of the manor, have you?" she asked, accepting a coffee cup with thanks.

Mrs. Stein dished up scrambled eggs and cottage potatoes. "Said to refer you to the bathroom mirror, Mrs. K."

"Means he's already blown the mad house," Emerson said, taking her seat. "Good morning, my little minions."

Nicky rolled his eyes in a perfect imitation of his father. "We are not minions, Mama. We are your dorogiye deti (darling children)," he said, with a flawless Russian accent.

"Dorogiye deti, my eye," Emerson retorted, brushing her fingers through his blond hair. "Dorogiye monstry (darling monsters), more like it!"

The children plowed through breakfast, talking about school, dance and music lessons, and friends. Emerson listened, laughed, and commented as necessary, keeping her coffee cup filled. Cav came in carrying Alexi.

"Poor little dear feels left out," she said, handing the baby to Emerson. "And, he's hungry!" Alexi protested, glaring at Emerson.

"Cav's getting your bottle, moj rebenok (baby mine)," Emerson cooed, kissing his cheek and smiling. "Be patient!" Alexi wailed in response. "Just like Papa!"

The bottle arrived and Alexi settled into Emerson's embrace, sucking contentedly, his eyelids growing heavy. "Were we like that Mama?" Tia asked, patting Alexi's plump leg.

Emerson laughed, stealing a kiss. "Yes, moj angel (my angel), only there were two of you!" Cav herded the children toward the entry way and Emerson rose to follow them.

"Make sure that you have everything before you leave. Cav is not your personal delivery service!" Emerson said, lifting Alexi to her shoulder and patting his back.

Anushka giggled. "I checked our book bags last night, Mama," she said in her 'Big Sister' voice. "We have everything we need … permission slips, homework … everything!"

"Remind me to increase your allowance," Emerson said, passing out kisses and hugs. "Mind how you go! I love you!" The door closed and she reset the security settings. Alexi produced a loud burp and yawned. "Thank you, mon petit prince," (my little prince), she said, grinning at the baby.

As she stepped out of the shower, her communicator trilled. "Cates."

"We're going to begin at 10 a.m., Em," Charlie said. "You'll be here, right?"

"Almost ready to leave now. How's he doing?"

Charlie chuckled. "He's managed to piss off the medical staff; no surprise there."

"That's my surly Russian," Emerson said, choosing a navy blue trouser suit, pale blue blouse, and checking on Alexi, who slept in his playpen. "I'll be there in an hour. Cates, out."

* * *

Illya hung his suit in the closet of the room he would occupy after deprogramming dressed in a loose pajama top, and draw waist pants. He silently cursed his trembling fingers as he pulled on the standard issue terry cloth robe and donned the matching slippers. The door glided open to reveal Charlie with a wheel chair.

"Hop in, Blue Eyes," she said, setting the brakes. "I'll take you for a spin."

Illya frowned. "I do not require a wheel chair."

Charlie returned his frown and pointed at the chair. "In the chair, now, Kuryakin," she ordered. "The guys in Risk Management all ready have you at the top of their shit list. Don't make it worse, okay?"

Illya relented and settled himself into the chair. Charlie knelt next to him. "You okay with this, Blondie?"

He managed a strained smile. "Will my deprogramming result in your calling me something other than 'Blue Eyes' and 'Blondie'?"

Charlie touched his hand and chuckled. "No, Cossack. We're deprogramming you, not me."

Emerson joined Waverly and Napoleon in the observation room, watching the medical team prep Illya for the procedure. "Emie, are you certain that you wish to observe this procedure?" Waverly asked concern in his voice.

"I can't imagine being any where else, Alexander," she answered, nodding her thanks to Napoleon for the coffee. She lit a cigarette and blew a thin stream of smoke into the air.

Waverly flipped the intercom switch and the three observers listened to the conversation.

"Illya," Charlie said, her voice soft and comforting, "I'm going to set up two large bore IV's." He grimaced at the thought. "I know, you hate needles," she chuckled. "But, we've got to keep you hydrated and you'll remember that we expect an increase in your core body temperature." Charlie tied off his left arm and inserted the first catheter. She moved to his right arm and repeated the process. "We're running Lactated Ringers and D5W running wide open."

"I want you on low flow O2," she said, placing a nasal canula set at 2 liters per minute on Illya's face. He watched her move a procedure tray loaded with an airway kit to the head of the bed. Illya frowned.

"An airway will not be necessary," he said, shaking his head.

"Don't start with me, Kuryakin," Charlie retorted. "Anyway, this is just a precaution." Sindy pressed an external temperature monitor to his forehead.

"I am beginning to feel like a guinea pig," Illya said, grinning at Sindy.

Dr. Young attached EEG leads and tested the machine. "Okay, Illya, let's get some baseline readings. Say your full name."

"Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin."

"Okay. Give me the name of your wife and kids."

"Emerson Myer Cates Kuryakin. Anya, Natasha, Tatiana, Nicholas, and Alexander Kuryakin."

"Good," Harry said, noting the questions and responses on the printout. "Now, tell me something about quantum mechanics."

Illya's brow creased. "Probability interpretations. The general idea of probability is often divided into two related concepts: Aleatory probability: which represents the likelihood of future events whose occurrence is governed by some _random_ physical phenomenon. This concept can be further divided into physical phenomena that are predictable, in principle, with sufficient information, determinism, and phenomena which are essentially unpredictable. Examples of the first kind include tossing dice or spinning a roulette wheel; an example of the second kind is radioactive decay." Harry Young frowned, remembering his lack of skill with physics.

"Epistemic probability," Illya continued, sounding for all the world like a professor lecturing in an introductory class, "which represents one's uncertainty about propositions when one lacks complete knowledge of causative circumstances. Such propositions may be about past or future events, but need not be. Some examples of epistemic probability are to assign a probability to the proposition that a proposed law of physics is true, and to determine how "probable" it is that a suspect committed a crime, based on the evidence presented. It is an open question whether aleatory probability is reducible to epistemic probability based on our inability to precisely predict every force that might affect the roll of a die, or whether such uncertainties exist in the nature of reality itself, particularly in quantum phenomena governed by Heisenberg's uncertainty principle. Although the same mathematical rules apply regardless of which interpretation is chosen, the choice has major implications for the way in which probability is used to model the real world."

Bebe chuckled. "Thank you, Illya. I'm sure that Harry has the baseline he needs when it comes to physics." Illya opened his eyes and grinned.

"I believe that epistemic probability is best suited to our present circumstances," Illya said, glancing toward the window, knowing that Emerson was surely rolling her eyes.

Harry smiled at the exchange. "I've developed a method of charting the EEG without having you tethered to the machine," he said. "A transmitter, built into the leads, sends the readings to the receiver. Since we expect that you will experience bouts of restlessness you won't need to be restrained."

"We hope to be a good deal more precise than that, Illya," Dr. Marxer said, setting up a 12-lead EKG monitor and wrapping an automatic blood pressure cuff to Illya's right arm. "This will allow you to roam the room at will and still record data." Dr. McMurphey lined up vials and prepared syringes. Sindy Salazar managed the check list.

Emerson held her breath and prayed silently. Charlie glanced toward the window. "We're ready to begin, sir." Waverly nodded. Illya looked toward the window, smiled, and closed his eyes.

"Are we ready?" Charlie asked. Her two colleagues nodded. "I'm injecting 45 µg/kg carbamate anticholinesterase physostigmine, IM," she said. Illya frowned, wincing at the pinch of the needle, and closed his eyes. Sindy notated the chart.

At noon, two hours in to the deprogramming, Illya paced the room like a caged cat, his cane tapping relentlessly on the tile floor. Emerson's eyes followed his every move. She looked up at Charlie, who had decided to take a break.

"Isn't there something you can give him, Charlie? Some drug that will calm him just a little?" Emerson hated the pleading tone in her voice.

Charlie shook her head. "I'm sorry, Em. We've gone through the drug list several times, trying to find something that would work without impairing the effectiveness of the physostigmine." She rested her hand on Emerson's shoulder. "For what it's worth, Denis and the lab rats are working on creating a cocktail for us to use, but, we'd rather not if it can be avoided."

Emerson laid her hand on Charlie's and smiled. "I know that you're doing the best you can, Charlie. It's very hard for me to watch him like this."

Alexander Waverly knocked his cold pipe against the trash can and then began carefully tamping fresh tobacco into the bowl. "Emie, perhaps you should get some lunch." He glanced at Napoleon who glanced at Charlie.

"I am fine," she answered, her voice flat and cold. Charlie shot a look at Napoleon who took the hint.

"Come on, Em," he said, his voice jovial. "I'm getting hungry and we're going to be at this for several more hours."

"I _said_ that I am fine," Emerson repeated, glaring at Napoleon, who shrank visibly.

"Then I am forced to make it an order, Agent Cates," Waverly said, touching a match to the tobacco. "Mr. Solo will take you to lunch. I will not countenance an argument."

Napoleon shrugged and held Emerson's jacket for her. "You heard the boss, Em." She rose and slipped into the jacket.

"We'll be back in less than an hour, Alexander," she said, turning her glare on her boss.

"Mr. Solo," Waverly said, relaxing in his chair, "you are to exercise your full authority as Number 1, Section 2. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir," Napoleon said, offering Emerson his arm.

Napoleon opened the door of Del Floria's and Emerson stepped onto the concrete landing. A light breeze caught her short, silver hair and the sun kissed her face.

"Beautiful day, Em," Napoleon said, taking her hand and leading her up the steps.

"You have no skill with small talk, Solo," she answered, smiling at the dark-haired agent.

"That's not what decades of women have told me," he said, quirking a smile. "I am the master of small talk." He squeezed her hand.

"I'm scared, 'Pasha," Emerson said, her voice soft and small. Napoleon stopped and pulled her into his embrace.

"Illya's going to come through this, Em," Napoleon whispered into her ear. "You're going to come through this." He tipped her face and kissed her cheek. "I once learned, from a very wise woman, that being afraid is a completely normal, completely acceptable emotion. Especially at a time like this."

Emerson shook her head. "I hate being afraid, 'Pasha!"

Napoleon laughed and they resumed their walk. "Spoken like a true control freak."

"I'm not a control freak," she protested. "I merely want the opportunity to exercise all of my options." She grinned at him. "And, the opportunity to create new options on demand."

"Understood," Napoleon said, ushering her into Mama's Trattoria. Carmelita Robertti glanced up and chuckled.

"Ah, Napasha," she said, pulling him into her substantial embrace. "I have missed seeing you and the little one." She released Napoleon and turned to Emerson. "Does your husband know that you're having a luncheon date with another man … a married man?" she asked, her eyes shining with mischief.

"Shhh, Carmelita!" Emerson said, hugging the older woman. "What he doesn't know won't hurt him."

Carmelita frowned and shook her head. "Too skinny, this one! As bad as Illya! Come, I fatten you up a little, give the Russian something to hold on to!" Emerson excused herself, hoping that Carmelita hadn't seen the tears shining in her eyes.

Napoleon slipped into the booth and Carmelita sat opposite him. "What is wrong, 'Pasha? What did I say?" she asked.

He spread his palms on the white linen tablecloth and shrugged. "Illya is in hospital, Carmelita. They're doing some serious tests and I figured Em could use a break."

The older woman crossed herself. "Sono un idiot!" (I am an idiot!) she said, shaking her head, loose strands of gun metal gray hair dancing in the dim light. Napoleon covered her hand with his.

"No, Carmi," he said, smiling at her. "You had no way of knowing. Just look after her while she's here, okay?"

Carmelita smiled. "That, I can do!" She snapped her fingers and a young waiter, Napoleon thought he might be her grandson, appeared magically. "Red wine, Paulo. And, bread!" He disappeared into the kitchen.

Emerson returned and Carmelita ushered her into the booth. "I have ordered wine and bread," Carmi said, brushing her hands against her apron. "Now, I cook!"

"Carmi, please," Emerson said, glancing at Napoleon, "we're in a bit of a hurry." She turned her gaze to the Italian woman. Napoleon shook his head.

"Ah, la mia ragazza bella (my lovely girl), do not worry!" Carmi hurried into the kitchen shouting orders in Italian.

Emerson frowned at Napoleon. "I do not want to be stuck here for hours, Napoleon!" she hissed, her fingers worrying the hem of the table cloth.

Napoleon drew himself up and returned her frown. "Need I remind you, Agent Cates, that I am Number 1, Section 2 and that I am under orders from Number 1, Number 1 to exercise my full authority?" He smiled and took her hand. "Any way, Illya would never forgive me if I rushed through lunch at Mama's."

Emerson relaxed a little. "I'm sorry, 'Pasha," she said, patting his hand. "You're right. Illya loves this place and Mama and she loves him." Paulo arrived with the wine, Napoleon approved, and the young waiter poured two glasses. Anna Maria, Carmi's granddaughter, delivered fresh rosemary bread and poured extra virgin olive oil into a small plate. "Enjoy! Grandma is making something very special!"

What seemed like hours later, Anna Maria cleared their plates and returned with coffee and cheese cake topped with fresh raspberries. Emerson moaned.

"I ought to plead that I can't eat one more thing!" she said, reaching for her dessert fork and attacking the creamy dessert. "But, that would be a lie."

Carmi appeared, smiling at the sight. "Good! Good! This is Illyusha's favorite dessert!" She slid into the booth next to Emerson and grinned at Napoleon. "Did you enjoy lunch?"

"Meraviglioso! Meraviglioso! Appena che cosa mi sono atteso da voi, Mama!" (Wonderful! Wonderful! Just what I expected from you, Mama!) Napoleon said, squeezing her hand. "Grazie." His warm, brown eyes smiled at her.

"Era niente, 'Pasha! (It was nothing, 'Pasha!) she answered, glancing quickly at Emerson and then to Napoleon. He nodded.

"Em," Carmi said softly, "with your permission, I will make a novena for Illyusha."

Emerson dropped her fork and shot a look at Napoleon. Her expression instantly softened. "Oh, Carmi," she said, her voice soft and sweet, "I would be so grateful."

"Thank you, for letting me do what little I can to help you." Carmi slipped her arm around Emerson's shoulder. "Understand me, ragazza bella, anything I can do, anything at all, you tell Mama. Capire?" (Understand?)

Emerson brushed tears from her cheeks and smiled. "Capire, Mama." She hugged the woman. "Thank you."

They walked slowly back to headquarters, enjoying the late afternoon busyness of the street.

"Seems like real people are going home from another hard day at the office," Emerson observed as two young women hurried past.

"We're 'real people', Em," Napoleon said, chuckling at her comparison.

Emerson shook her head. "No, 'Pasha, we're not." She fixed him with a serious gaze. "Real people work 9 to 5. Real people get paid on the 15th and the 30th. Real people are never shot at, captured, tortured, or killed."

He tugged her to a halt, resting his hands lightly on her shoulders. "Do you want to be 'real people', Em? Do you want Illya working 9 to 5, coming home to you every night, having dinner with the kids, watching TV, and going to bed after the late news?"

She offered a wry smile. "Right now, there's nothing I want more," she said, watching a business man hale a cab. She shrugged. "Of course, he'd kill me if that happened. Can you imagine Illya Kuryakin living like 'real people', 'Pasha?"

Napoleon snorted his reply. "Not for very long, Em. Not any longer than it took him to pick the lock on the door and escape."

The bell of Del Floria's jangled and Del nodded as the two agents passed. Once in the dressing room he pressed the button twice and the door to reception swung open. Jillian Gordon, tall, buxom, and red haired, leered at Napoleon and ignored Emerson.

"Mr. Solo," she purred, rising to pin on his badge, revealing a glimpse of her breasts, "I hope lunch was enjoyable."

"Very," Emerson said curtly, snatching her badge from Jillian's fingers. "Good to see you, too." Jillian rolled her eyes at Napoleon.

"Very enjoyable, Jillian," he said, smoothing his tie and grinning at her. "Not as enjoyable as the sights of UNCLE, but enjoyable nonetheless." Emerson grabbed his arm and pushed him through the door.

"You are insufferable!" she said, shoving him down the hallway. "I can't imagine how Charlie stands it!"

"Stands what?" Napoleon asked innocently. The elevator door opened and Emerson slapped his arm.

"You, that's what! Even after all this time, you still flirt with anything in a skirt. Unbelievable!"Napoleon chuckled and punched the button for medical. "I figure that she gets to see some of the best bodies in UNCLE … naked, no less. So, I get to flirt with some of the other best bodies … clothed."

Emerson laughed at his justification and stepped into the main hallway of UNCLE Medical. Her eyes followed the intersecting hallway, but she stopped at the desk.

"Any change?" she asked, Sindy. The nurse shook her head.

After checking in with Charlie, Napoleon headed to his office to work on assignment schedules. Waverly excused himself to deal with a developing situation in Asia, leaving Emerson alone for the first time since that morning. She paced the observation room, mimicking Illya's agitation, listening to him rant and rave, and praying that he would settle down soon.

She called Susie, who brought an arm load of files, and set to work on them, eager for anything that might distract her from what was happening just beyond the mirrored glass. Later, Sindy came in with fresh coffee and sandwiches, just as Charlie and Harry turned over the process to Dr. Creason and Dr. Larson.

Charlie entered and shrugged off her lab coat; she eyed the sandwiches hungrily. "Are you willing to share?" she asked.

Emerson waved her hand at the repast. "Help yourself," she said, watching the new team chat with Dr. Marxer. "Please tell me that those two know what they're doing."

Harry snagged a sandwich, a bag of chips, and poured coffee. "They're mine," he said, folding his lanky frame into a chair and resting his huge feet on the edge of the desk. "Best in the biz. Trained them myself." Charlie nodded her agreement.

"Come on, Em," she said, selecting a sandwich and taking a bite, "you don't think that we'd let just anybody work on this, do you?"

Emerson played with her chips, separating them into sizes. "Sorry, of course not."

The three ate in companionable silence, Harry consuming three large sandwiches and two bags of chips. Emerson smiled, thinking of Illya's insatiable appetite.

"I've ordered a bed for you, Em," Charlie said, tossing the remains of her lunch into the trash. "Figured you'd be here anyway; might as well be comfortable."

Emerson smiled. "Thanks, Charlie. Um, do you think you can have him home in time for his birthday?"

Charlie stood and stretched. "That's what I love about you, Em; you never ask for the impossible." She grinned at Emerson. "We'll do our best. Now, I'm off to lala land for a while and Harry's going to join me." Emerson laughed and Harry rolled his eyes.

"And I bitch at 'Pasha for being a flirt!" Emerson said, watching the two tired doctor's file out of the room.

"It's okay, Harry," she heard Charlie saying as the door closed. "My husband understands."

Emerson called home to check on the kids, worked on files, chatted with Waverly when he arrived for an update, and watched at the orderlies set up her bed. "Brought you some scrubs, too, Miss Cates," one of the bruisers said, patting the clothing. "Thought you'd want to sleep comfortable."

"Thanks, guys," Emerson said, turning down the bed and fluffing the pillow. She checked her watch. _Midnight_. She smiled at the thought of her sleeping children, safe at home, and changed into her scrubs. She walked to the window and pressed her palm against the glass.

"Horoshaya noch', moj vozl'ublennyj," (Good night, my beloved) she whispered, worried that Illya's agitation hadn't lessened over the past few hours. "YA l'ubl'u Vas." (I love you)

She crawled into bed, surprised at how exhausted she felt. Just as sleep overwhelmed her she whispered, "My God, help my Nikala …"

"I am not mad!" Illya shouted his voice hoarse from non-stop talking, limping around the room, leaning heavily on his cane. He stumbled and fell heavily against the wall, bumping his head. Dr. Creason, a small, blonde woman, reached out to steady him only to have Illya strike out at her.

"Illya," BeBe said her voice soft but firm, "I cannot allow you to do that." Her eyes locked on his and he dropped his head. He hurried to her, taking her hands.

"Please, Bebe," he pleaded, "do not be angry with me! I am sorry, so very sorry." He pressed his dry, warm forehead against her hands. "Forgive me, please!" He lifted his head and looked at Dr. Creason. "My deepest apologies, Dr. Creason. I cannot fathom why I attempted to harm you."

Dr. Creason and Dr. Marxer looked at each other and Creason shrugged. "It's all right, Illya. You're simply not yourself at the moment." Illya's face relaxed and he smiled at Bebe.

"She forgave me, Bebe! It is all right, da?" He smiled like a child.

"Da, Illya," Bebe said, brushing at his hair. "It is all right."

Illya began pacing again. Bebe checked the chart, silently grateful that the hourly blood tests reported a decrease in the amount of carbamate anticholinesterase physostigmine necessary for positive results. It concerned her, however, that Illya's agitation continued unabated and that his temperature continued a slow but steady rise.

The door opened and Charlie entered followed by Harry. "You look like you could use some shut-eye," Charlie said, resting her hand on Bebe's shoulder. "Room 12 is set up for you. Catch a shower, some dinner, and get some sleep."

Bebe nodded and rose slowly. Illya stopped pacing. "Where are you going?" he asked his voice sharp.

"I am tired, Illya," Bebe said, walking toward the door, her eyes never leaving him. "I need to rest, to get something to eat. You understand, da?"

Illya shook his head excitedly. "No! No, I do not understand!" He limped to Bebe's side, taking her hand. He sobbed. "Please, Bebe, do not leave me here! Do not leave me alone!"

Bebe rested her palm on his head, feeling the electrodes of the EEG beneath her hand. She tipped his face and smiled at him. "Illyusha, you are safe here," she said, her voice gentle, as if she were talking to a child. "I will see you soon, moj mal'chik. (my boy) I promise."

Illya's tears stopped and he kissed her hand. "I will miss you." He glared at Charlie and Harry, staggering and quickly correcting. "You are making her leave me!" he accused.

"Illya, I want you to rest for a minute," Charlie said, reaching for his hand. "You've been working very hard tonight without a break." Illya stilled and smiled at her.

"I am hungry." He patted his stomach and grinned. "You will feed me, da?"

Charlie chuckled quietly, glancing at the blood pressure numbers. They were, as expected, suddenly lower. She glanced at Harry who nodded. "What would you like to eat, Illya?"

Illya's face lit up. "I would very much like a cheeseburger. Big and thick. Medium rare. Tomatoes, lettuce, onions. French fries with cheese sauce." He face darkened. "No catsup or mustard or mayonnaise." He shook his head energetically. "I do not like catsup or mustard or mayonnaise."

Dr. Larson smiled. "One big, thick, medium rare cheeseburger with tomatoes, lettuce, and onions coming up. With French fries."

"And cheese sauce." Illya grinned. "No catsup or mustard or mayonnaise," he repeated.

"Right, no catsup or mustard or mayonnaise," Larson said, heading to the door.

Illya looked at Charlie, his eyes wide and innocent. "May I have something to drink?"

"What would you like?"

"Ice cold vodka!" Charlie rolled her eyes.

"What's your second choice?"

Illya sighed dramatically. "Ice cold Coke. Okay?"

Charlie nodded to Larson. "Bring several bottles, Jim," she said. "Something tells me that one won't be enough." She pointed toward the bed and Illya sat. "Open up and let me take your temp." Illya did as he was told.

"You're temp is up, Illya," Charlie said, shaking down the thermometer. "We'll have to watch it closely."

Illya frowned and touched his forehead. "I do not feel ill, Charlie." He wriggled a little. "I need to use the facilities. Again."

Carrie Andrews, a nurse assigned to charting, waited until Illya was finished.

"What is she doing?" Illya asked, listening to the toilet flush.

"We're charting fluids," Charlie said, the EKG strip moving between her fingers. Every few inches she made a notation. "What goes in and what goes out."

"Why?" Charlie glanced up, trying to decide if his focused curiosity was an improvement.

"You're running a temp, Illya. The drug that we're giving you puts stressors on your body, especially your brain. So, you have problems regulating your body temperature, which is why you're still connected to the IV's. We must keep you hydrated."

Illya considered the answer and resumed pacing. "I am still hungry," he said, leaning on his black briar cane and passing Harry.

"Larson's on his way, I'm sure," Harry said, watching the change in Illya's EEG pattern. "Illya, would you mind lying down for me?" Illya stopped pacing.

"I am not tired, Harry."

Harry smiled his most winning smile. "I'm sure you've got enough energy to power the building, maybe even the block, but I would like to you lie down for a few minutes." Illya shrugged and climbed onto the bed. "Charlie, would you dim the lights please?"

Charlie dimmed the lights. "Illya, I want you to tell me your full name," Harry said, marking a line on the EEG strip.

"Illya Nicholas Kuryakin," Illya said, his voice low.

"Tell me the names of your children and your wife."

Illya closed his eyes and frowned, his fingers rubbed his forehead. "Nushka … Anya … Anushka. Um … Nickovetch … Natalie … Tatiana … Alexi … Alexander. Da! And, Emie Cates, too." Illya opened his eyes and smiled at Harry. "Shall I tell you about probability interpretations? About epistemic probability?"

Harry shook his head. "No Illya, this is fine. We'll talk about probability later." Illya pushed up on his elbow.

"Harry, why is it so dark in here?" He frowned. "I do not like darkness." His speech slurred slightly.

Harry glanced at Charlie who checked the most recent lab results. "He's making good progress, Harry," Charlie said, comparing numbers. "I really hate to pull back now."

"Harry," Illya insisted, "why is it dark in here? I do not like darkness!"

"Shhh, Illya," Charlie said, sounding as if she were comforting a frightened child, "it's all right. I want you to rest, now. Close your eyes, your cheeseburger will be here soon."

Illya settled against his pillows and closed his eyes. Charlie covered him with the sheet and watched the monitor. "Tachycardia," Charlie said, watching Illya's heart rate rise to 120 beats/minute. She adjusted the bed with Illya's head down, hoping to create a vagal response. Carrie noted the change in position.

"It's not severe," Harry said, checking Illya's pupils. "He's dilated, more than when he was moving." Illya moaned and mumbled something. "Repeat, Illya!" Harry moved just in time to avoid a stream of vomit.

"Shit!" Harry said, quickly turning Illya on his side and reaching for the suction tube. "Charlie, we may need an airway!" Charlie was at his side instantly, moving the bed into position. Harry continued to suction. "Clear for the moment."

"Illya! Open your eyes and look at me!" she shouted, rolling him onto his back and keeping his airway open. Illya's eyelids fluttered open.

"Sorry."

"We're going to put in an airway, Illya," she said, hearing Harry open packages and set up the tray.

Illya's hand caught her wrist painfully. "No! No airway!" Charlie's eyes met Harry's.

"It's ready if we need it," Harry said, checking Illya's pupils again. "Illya, if you have more vomiting we may have to do the air way. Understand?" Illya nodded gingerly.

"I will not vomit again," he said, his blue eyes dark. "Promise." Charlie smiled. Illya smiled at Charlie. "I am very hungry now."

Charlie laughed at that retort. "I'll just bet you are, Blue eyes," she said, raising the head of his bed and returning the nasal canula. She glanced up as Lawson entered carrying a tray laden with food. "Feel up to this now?" Illya grinned.

The medical team watched in nothing less than awe as Illya sat in bed, devouring his cheese burger and cheese fries, finishing two bottles of soda, and chatting away. Charlie looked at Harry. "This is completely unlike him," she whispered. "Illya never chats. Ever."

Dr. Lawson watched the monitor while Illya stuffed himself. "His Tachycardia seems to have resolved and his blood pressure is stable. Amazing."

"That's our Russian," Charlie said, removing the decimated tray. "He never follows the norm." Illya fidgeted. "No, Illya," Charlie said, her voice sharper than she intended, "you need to stay put for a while, okay?"

"I need to use the facilities. Illya frowned. "I hate making an announcement every time." Charlie grinned at him.

"You're making good progress, Illya," she said, helping him manage the IV pole. "Now, I want you to pee and then rest. Got it?"

Illya nodded and closed the bathroom door. He reappeared a few minutes later and dutifully hauled himself into bed. He grinned at Charlie. "I am where you want, da?"

Charlie pulled up the sheet and absently brushed his blond hair. "Da, Illyusha. You're exactly where I want you." She smiled, resisting the urge to kiss his forehead. "Let me check your temp and then I want you to get some sleep, okay?" Illya nodded and opened his mouth like a baby bird. "Under your tongue and no cheating!"

"Temp is 102.8," Charlie said, shaking the thermometer. "And, his heart rate is slowly increasing." Illya watched her intently. She smiled and patted his arm. "Close your eyes and rest, Illyusha." He closed his eyes and lay still.

"If this temp keeps going up …" Charlie said, running her fingers through her hair. "I can't push any more fluids." She paused, thinking. "Carrie, I want ice packs … long ones." Carrie returned shortly and Charlie tucked the ice packs beneath Illya's arm pits and along his torso. "Let's see if that helps."

Harry pulled up a chair and rested his long legs on the metal desk. "Sit, Charlie. Let's watch him sleep for a while." Charlie collapsed in the recliner and watched the monitor.

Illya's heart rate settled at 110, which, considering the situation was tolerable. Carrie checked his temp and reported that it had dropped nearly a full degree. "Keep the ice packs fresh, Carrie," Charlie ordered.

Carrie left to make more packs and have a smoke. Dr. Creason excused herself and Dr. Lawson followed. Harry yawned and watched the monitor. Charlie settled in and reviewed Illya's chart.

The dim light mixed with the cool temperature in the room and they both nodded off.

Emerson jolted awake. She listened to the noise and activity in Illya's room and was out the door without thinking.

"What's happened?" she asked, rushing to his bedside.

"Em, get out of the way," Charlie said, pushing Emerson aside. Charlie expertly inserted an airway and connected it to an ambu bag. "Carrie, bag him!"

Harry filled a cardiac syringe with epinephrine, found his landmarks, and plunged the needle through Illya's chest. Emerson leaned against the wall, watching her friends work feverishly on her husband. Carrie readied the paddles. "Charge," Harry ordered, settling the paddles into place. "Clear!" Illya convulsed at the shock.

"No change," Charlie said, softly. "Recharge." Harry repeated the procedure twice more. "Sinus rhythm," Charlie said, taping the airway into place and connecting the vent. She glanced at Emerson.

"He was asleep. His numbers were good … reasonable under the circumstances," Charlie explained. Her cheeks colored slightly. "I guess we both nodded off. The alarms woke us." She went to Emerson. "I'm sorry, Em. We shouldn't have fallen asleep."

Emerson ran her hands over her face and shrugged. "This would have happened whether you were asleep or standing right next to him." Emerson moved to Illya's side. "YA l'ubl'u Vas, Nikala," she said, kissing his cheek. "Vy bezopasny zdes', moj vozl'ublennyj. YA budu s Vami, v to vrem'a kak Vy spite." (You are safe here, my beloved. I'll be with you while you sleep.)

Charlie took her arm, "Em, give us a few minutes to get him squared away." Emerson frowned. "We need to put in a Foley, monitor the vent, and check the IV's. Just a few minutes, I promise."

Emerson nodded and walked out the door and into Napoleon.

"Em, what's happened?" he asked, his brown eyes filled with worry.

"I'm not completely sure," she said, her voice shaky. "He's unconscious, on a vent … " She sobbed, and Napoleon held her, quelling the desire to enter Illya's room and ask a million questions.

"He's got the best team, Em, you know that," he whispered. "We'll get through this, I promise."

Emerson pushed away and wiped her face with her hands. "Don't make promises you can't keep, Napoleon," she said, walking away.

* * *

Emerson showered and changed, not feeling any better for the effort. She watched the orderlies' move her bed from the observation room into Illya's and paced briefly. _Think, Emerson,_ she ordered her brain. _Make a list of things to do and then do them!_

Glancing at her watch, she decided that the kids were awake and getting ready for school; the perfect time to call home and talk to each of them. She punched the intercom button. "Charlie, I'm going to my office and make some calls. Let me know when I can move in." Charlie nodded and Emerson swept out the door.

The elevator doors opened and Alexander Waverly stepped into the hall way. "I understand that there has been a change, Emie."

She took a deep breath. "He's unconscious and on a vent," she said, crossing her arms protectively. "Charlie and the team are with him now." She glanced over her shoulder. "I'm sure you can get in without difficulty." She jabbed at the floor button and backed into the corner watching Waverly's surprised expression as the doors closed.

Susie jumped up as Emerson entered the outer office. "Didn't expect to see you here today," she said, grabbing a handful of messages.

Emerson forced a smile. "I'm taking a break, Susie," she said, looking at the messages, but not comprehending them. She glanced up. "Coffee ready yet?"

Susie nodded and hurried to the break room. She reappeared in seconds with a carafe and cups. "I'll bring it in for you and I added something to eat … Danish."

Emerson followed Susie into her office. "I'm fine, Susie, thanks though." She paused and filled her cup. "Hold my calls, please, unless it's Charlie." Susie left quietly.

Emerson sat at her desk, taking in the stacks of files, memo's, and mail waiting for her attention. She sipped her coffee, looked again at the messages, and lit a cigarette. She closed her eyes and leaned into the chair.

"This whole thing is a goddamn cluster fuck, Emerson," she said aloud, rocking the chair slightly. "A total and complete cluster fuck." Her cigarette smoke rose slowly to the ceiling. She opened her eyes and they settled on the latest photograph of her family. "The Family Kuryakin," she said, a rueful smile on her face. "Some family, indeed." She called the apartment and grabbed the Danish.

"Cates-Kuryakin residence," Mrs. Stein answered.

"Miriam, it's Em."

"Mrs. K., how are things going?" Emerson could hear the noise of breakfast in the background.

"He's resting at the moment," Emerson said, cursing the seeming necessity of lying to her friend and employee. "I just wanted to check in with you before the kids left for school."

"Oh, they'll be so pleased to hear your voice." Miriam called over the din and Nicky's sweet voice came over the receiver.

"Mama? How is Papa? When is coming home?" he asked, breathlessly.

"Hi, Nicky," Emerson said, steeling herself for this and the coming conversations. "Papa is sleeping right now. He's very tired." She took a sip of coffee. "Papa sends his love, baby." Nicky snorted at being called a baby. "May I speak to your sister?"

"Which one?" Nicky asked sarcasm in his four-year-old voice.

Emerson chuckled. "Pick one."

"Mama? We miss you! I have to run now; the car is waiting. Tell Papa that I love him." Emerson heard the phone change hands. "Hi, Mama; it's Tia. Alexi said his first word today! He said 'Papa'!"

"I'm sure that he did, sweetie. Put on Anushka, please."

"Good morning, Mama," Anushka said, every inch the oldest child. Emerson shook her head, wondering how much therapy would cost once Anushka discovered the truth about her parents.

"Hi, baby, how are things?"

"Hectic." The little girls' clipped voice stilled for a second. "How is Papa?"

"He had a difficult night and didn't sleep very much. But, early this morning he fell asleep and still is."

"Is he all right?"

_I hope to heaven that she's the only one of my kids who always asks the right and most difficult questions,_ Emerson thought, imagining the little girl standing with the phone cradled between her ear and shoulder, hand on her hip, and twirling a strand of wheat blonde hair. "He's doing well, 'Nushka. He just needs to rest, that's all." Emerson waited for the other shoe to fall.

"I'm sorry, Mama, but Cav's calling us for school. Will you call again tonight? Will we be able to visit him soon?"

"I'll call again tonight; maybe even have dinner with you. Be careful, baby. I love you."

"Love you, too." The line went dead and Emerson sat staring at the receiver, tears in her eyes.

"Love you, too, 'Nushka," Emerson whispered, returning the receiver to its cradle. She sat up straight and ran her fingers through her hair. "Keep this up, Cates, and you'll never get 'Mother of the Year'."

* * *

Charlie stood at the foot of Illya's bed, watching the monitors and hating the fact that she had no way of knowing what had happened. She reached for the chart and reviewed it again.

"Charlie, you're going to wear the paper out," Harry said, moving to stand next to her.

"What the hell happened, Harry?" she asked, shaking her head. "Have we just accomplished what Thrush has wanted for years? Have we just turned Illya Kuryakin into a mass of disconnected brain cells?"

"Not if his EEG is correct," Harry said, letting the long strip drop to the floor. "His waves are reporting a normal sleep mode at the moment, although there was a spike in activity … a neural storm of sorts … just before he lost consciousness."

"A seizure; and that's supposed to be comforting?" Charlie asked, frowning at her colleague.

"In an odd sort of way, yes," Harry answered, checking Illya's reflexes, pupillary reaction, and response to painful stimuli. "See, he's not reacting as he should if he were comatose." Harry offered a wry smile. "It could be worse."

"So, I'm supposed to tell Emerson that he's doing just fine?" Her face showed pure incredulity. "I'll let you tell her, Harry. I prize my life too much!"

"Emerson's no medical idiot, Charlie. She knows the drill," Harry said, glancing at his watch. "Breakfast?"

"That's something that Illya would approve of," Charlie said, hanging the clip board on the footboard. "Let me call Em and we can hit the commissary."

Emerson's private line blinked and she grabbed the phone. "Cates," she answered curtly.

"It's Charlie, Em. You can come in anytime you want. He's resting comfortably, all of his vitals are normal, as is the EEG. He's still on the vent, but I'm not going to begin weaning him off for another 24 to 48 hours."

"You're telling me that he's just sleeping?"

Charlie handed the phone to Harry. "You explain it, Dr. Young."

"Em, it's Harry," he said, his voice deep and soft. "Illya's sleeping but it's more complicated than that. His EEG shows a normal sleep state, but he's not reacting to any external stimuli." Harry paused and ran his fingers through his curly, dark hair. "I guess that I'm saying he's somewhere in between those two states … sleep and coma."

"I've got to ask, Harry," Emerson asked, her heart skipping a beat, "was their brain damage? Is Illya Kuryakin still in there or are we dealing with somebody who won't be able to add 2 and 2?"

"At this point I can't give you an absolute answer. His neural function is normal. He's not showing signs of brain trauma." He glanced at Charlie who gave him the 'thumbs up' sign. "I don't know why he isn't awake, Em. Could be the residual drug effect, or having to shock him three times, or some brain trauma that we can't visualize."

"How long?"

"I wish I knew, Em," Harry said, frowning at Charlie. "All I can tell you is that he's in there somewhere. We just need to keep the door open and keep inviting him in."

"I'm on my way," Emerson said, crushing her cigarette and grabbing her jacket. "And, Harry, thank you."

Harry chuckled. "Don't thank me until he's bitching about being hungry. When that happens, and I think it will, then we've got something to be thankful for."

* * *

Angelique DuChein glanced up at the sound of her cell door opening.

"Napasha," she said, smoothing her white prisoner jumpsuit, "you look all done-in. What's happened?"

Napoleon moved into the small cell, allowing the automatic door to close silently behind him. His eyes locked onto Angelique and she shuddered at the terrible rage burning in them. He leaned against the metal table.

"You lied to me," he said, his voice low and growling. "The information you gave us about the drugs you gave to Illya, was a lie." His face went white with anger. "I should have killed you when I had the chance. Should have never let Mark talk me out of it."

"'Pasha," Angelique said softly, angling away from him, "I told you absolutely everything." She collided with the wall. "Honestly, I told you everything."

Napoleon snorted. "I cannot believe that you can say the word 'honestly' without it turning to ashes in your mouth." He advanced on her, his arms hanging loosely at his sides. "No, Angelique, you did not tell me 'absolutely everything'." He grabbed her shoulders and pinned her against the wall. "If you had I wouldn't be here now."

Her eyes scanned the room, fixing on the camera. She sneered. "You wouldn't hurt me, Napoleon; not with a security camera recording your every move and word." He backhanded her and then caught her as she slumped to the floor.

"Don't presume to tell me what I will and will not do, Angelique," he hissed, his lips brushing her ear. "If you remember, I promised that I'd kill you later … and I always keep my promises." He hauled her to her feet and pushed her toward the door.

"Where … where are you taking me?" she squealed, tasting blood in her mouth, struggling against him.

"Shut up and walk," he said, pressing the muzzle of his Walter P-38 into her back. She fell silent.

At the security desk, he handcuffed her and signed out. "We're going to interrogation," Napoleon said to the guard. "Don't wait up."

* * *

By early afternoon Illya's stereo system played jazz softly in the background, the photograph of The Family Kuryakin sat on the night stand, and Emerson paced the hospital room. Sindy and Carrie expertly moved him, changed the bed clothes, and drew a basin of warm water for his bath. "I'll handle the bath," she said, smiling at the two nurses. "Thank you both for everything."

Carrie blushed and Sindy grinned. "If you need anything, Em, let us know." She giggled. "Hell, you know where everything is, just help yourself!" The door closed quietly behind them.

"Nikala," she said, testing the temperature of the water for his bath, "Tia tells me that Alexi said his first word this morning." She squeezed the soapy wash cloth and bathed his face. "Now, while I'm convinced that all of our children are Phi Beta Kappa material, I doubt that Alexi is talking." She finished his arm and moved to the other side. "Maybe when he's three months old, but not now." She smiled at the thought.

"Tia says that Alexi said 'Papa', clear as a bell." She unbuttoned his pajama top and scrubbed his chest and belly. "You're getting too skinny, Nikala. Mama Carmi will not be happy. As soon as you're awake, I'll have her cook something delectable for you. Lots of bread and wine and pasta." She rolled him gently on his side, pulled his arm from the sleeve, and soaped his back. "I'm going to powder you with corn starch," she said, sprinkling his back and then massaging his skin. 'It'll make you feel good and keep you comfortable." He moaned softly.

Emerson continued the sponge bath, removing his pajama bottoms and carefully washing his body, powdering his hips, thighs, and between his legs. She was surprised at how heavy he seemed and how tired she felt once he was dressed in clean pajamas. "There," she said, drying her hands and pulling a light blanket to waist, "all better."

Mindy and Janie from Physical Therapy arrived for Illya's afternoon session. "Hi, Mrs. K.," Mindy said, unfailing cheerful. "How's he doing?"

"He's doing, Min," Emerson answered, settling into the recliner to watch. "You know that he hates PT."

"Do we!" Janie answered, rolling her eyes. "We've both survived the infamous Russian." She paused, her face filled with conflicting emotions. "This time will be different … harder, I think." Emerson nodded her understanding.

"Illya," Mindy said, approaching the bed. "It's Mindy and Janie. We're here to torture you." She took his hand. "We're going to start slow, working on your fingers, hands, wrists, forearms, elbows, biceps, and shoulders. Let us do the work, okay?" Illya made no response.

Mindy and Janie worked slowly, putting each joint through its full range of motion, using their hands to create gentle resistance, and massaging muscles that seemed contracted. "You're doing very well, Illya," Janie said, working her fingers deep into the muscle of his chest where it communicated with the shoulder. He groaned and she smiled. "Good, Illya. You're telling us that you're aware of us and that you don't like it!"

The young women moved to his legs and continued for an hour, working on his right leg; and then moved to his left leg, massaging the thigh and working around the cast. Their technique was as much massage as exercise, but he seemed to relax beneath their touch. Janie washed her hands as Mindy pulled up the blanket. "We'll be back later," she said to Emerson. "Dr. Charles has ordered four one hour sessions a day, so we'll be busy."

Emerson moved to his side and took his hand. "Anything I can do in the meantime?"

"Keep his hands and feet limber," Mindy said, smiling at her patient. "We don't want any contractions and massage will help keep the muscles supple." She pulled a small bottle from her pocket. "This is very light massage oil that will ease the friction and make your hands nice and soft. Use it liberally!" Janie waved and Mindy followed her out.

"They love you, Nikala," Emerson said, brushing his cheek with a kiss, "and you should be nice to them. No nasty behaviors!" She pulled a physic's journal from her briefcase and perched on the edge of his bed. "This just came, Nikala. I'll read it to you and you can correct me later." She began with the first article, feeling like she was reading a language from another galaxy. "I hope you understand this," she said, crossing her eyes, "'cause it doesn't make any sense to me!"

After an hour of reading the incomprehensible journal, she stood and stretched. "I'm going home to meet the kids when they come home from school. We'll have dinner together … I'll bring you the latest news … and then we'll do what we always do. Homework, baths, bedtime story, and into the sack." She kissed his forehead, brushing his hair with her fingers, and let her kisses travel to his eyelids, and his cheeks. "Charlie will begin weaning you from the vent soon. Napasha will be here in a few minutes to fill you in on the news from Section 2. YA vernus' pozzhe segodn'a vecherom, moj vozl'ublennyj," (I'll see you later tonight, my beloved) she whispered, her lips brushing his ear.

"YA l'ubl'u Vas, Nikala. Navsegda." (I love you, Nikala. Forever)

* * *

Angelique's pretty face reflected pure terror as Napoleon strapped her into a metal chair, cuffing her wrists behind her back.

"You will tell me everything you did to Illya. Every last, tiny, minute, detail," he said, his face like stone.

Angelique stared at him. In all the years she had known Napoleon Solo this was the first and only time she had truly feared him. "I used the drugs I told you about. I used them throughout his association with Dr. Devon-Jones. I slipped them into his coffee or tea, into his food, even into the water he used to brush his teeth. I changed the formula to temper the hallucinogenic effects; I couldn't have him screwing up the project. He was very cooperative and there were few side effects." She smiled at Napoleon. "The worst of it was the exhaustion and the occasional bouts of dizziness."

"And he attributed that to the hours he worked in the lab?"

"I assume so. Even Devon-Jones thought he was working Illya too hard, but the Russian wouldn't relent." She shrugged as much as was possible. "He played right into my plan."

"Don't be too proud, Angelique," Napoleon said, removing a syringe from his jacket pocket.

She sneered. "I doubt that whatever you have in that syringe will help you, Napasha." She glared at him. "I'm pretty much immune to your little pharmacy."

Napoleon released her right arm, uncapped the needle, and tapped it, freeing a small bubble. He pushed the liquid into the needle until a small bead of drug danced on the tip. "This, my darling Angelique, is something brand new; something you've never seen before."

"You won't kill me, Napoleon. You don't have it in you." Her head flew back from the force of his blow.

"We don't think that this will kill you, Angelique," he said, tying off her arm and finding a vein. "Of course, we haven't had much time to test it, so I could be wrong." He pushed the needle home and emptied the syringe. Her eyes widened.

"Napasha … please … "

"Be still, Angelique," he said, laying the syringe on the table, "you'll just make the drug work harder. I'll give you a few minutes and then we'll talk." He left the room.

* * *

Emerson let herself into the apartment, dropped her keys in the basket, kicked off her shoes, and reset the security system. Her briefcase landed next to the discarded shoes. Mrs. Stein appeared from the kitchen.

"Good to have you home, Mrs. K.," the older woman said, a sweet smile on her face. "We're having Sloppy Joes for dinner with French fries, baked beans, and salad."

Emerson chuckled, understanding who was designing the menus in her absence. "I take it that the children have exercised their prerogative when it comes to the menu?"

Miriam laughed, brushing a tendril of gray hair from her cheek. "I learned, long ago, to keep the peace. It's not a bad meal, not fancy by any means, but they like it and they'll eat it." She led the way to the kitchen, the smells enticing Emerson, reminding her of how hungry she was. "And, they'll eat the salad or there's no dessert!"

"Good thinking, Miriam," Emerson said, lifting pot lids and tasting the main course. "I put my full faith and trust in the carrot and stick method." Miriam frowned.

"You look exhausted."

Emerson smiled. "It's been a rough 36 hours," she said, leaning against the counter top and taking the coffee mug Miriam offered. She sipped the hot brew. "It's good to be home for a while."

"May I ask how things are going?"

Emerson shrugged. "At the moment Harry and Charlie insist that he's simply in a very deep sleep. I talk to him, physical therapy comes and goes … but I can't say that there's much change." She closed her eyes. "He does moan at appropriate points along the way, but that's about it." A tear slipped down her cheek.

"You sit down, young lady," Miriam said, taking Emerson's elbow and guiding her to a chair. "It won't do to have you in tears or looking all blotchy and red-eyed with the darling's come home!" Emerson allowed the woman to fuss over her, enjoying the feeling of being cared for.

"You're too good, Miriam," she said, watching her cook and housekeeper return to the stove. "I couldn't do any of this without you."

"Don't be ridiculous!" Miriam said, opening the fridge and pulling out the salad ingredients. "As long as you can get food delivered you'll be fine."

Emerson shook her head. "That's not what I mean and you know it." Miriam grinned. "I know that Cav takes care of the kids, but they love and adore you. You're the grandma they'll never have."

Miriam brushed her plump cheek. "Now, don't you start; you'll have me blubbering all over the salad and it'll wilt!" She smiled. "I can't imagine being any place else, Em. I love all of you like you're my own. Cav and I both feel the same. We belong here."

The door crashed open followed by a cacophony of voices and the pounding of shoes. The onslaught halted. "Mama's home!" Anushka announced. The kitchen door burst open and Emerson was swamped by her children, all talking at once, all vying for hugs and kisses.

"Missed you," she murmured into soft hair.

Nicky grinned. "Missed you more!" Anushka regarded her with darkly serious eyes.

"How is Papa?" she asked, crossing her arms.

"He's still sleeping, 'Nushka," Emerson said, a tired smile on her face. "Now, change your clothes and I'll meet you in the upstairs study." Her suggestion was greeted universally with groans. "No complaining!"

Emerson refilled her coffee mug and headed upstairs, ready to help with homework. _When did kids this age start getting homework,_ she thought, stopping at the top of the stairs. "Ready?" she asked, pushing open the door.

The kids sat on thick pillows around a low Chinese lacquered table, books, pencils, crayons, and papers scattered over its surface. Emerson chuckled to herself, remembering Illya's shocked look when he saw the table.

"You cannot possibly use this table with the children," he had said, shaking his head. "This is an expensive piece, Em. They'll make a mess of it!"

"Not to worry," she had replied, touching the mirror like surface of the table. "It's been protected with even more lacquer. The kids can't hurt it."

And, they didn't harm the table. They loved it; loved sitting on the floor to do their homework, play board games, and cards. She silently wondered what would happen when they out grew it.

Nicky glanced up and grinned. "We're making pictures for Papa," he said, choosing another crayon for his masterpiece. "I'm making a picture of a rainbow." She smiled and folded herself onto the floor. Cav appeared at the door with Alexi.

"Bring me that rotten baby!" Emerson said, lifting her arms to receive the baby. Alexi blinked and frowned. "That's what I like, kid, excitement when you see your Mama!" Alexi's fist touched her face, his fingers damp. "Way to go, Alexi," she laughed, brushing the dampness away. "Your sister tells me that you're talking."

"No, he isn't," Tasha said, not lifting her eyes from her project. "Tia thinks that he loves her best."

"He does!" Tia countered, glaring at her older sister. She turned attention to Emerson. "He did say 'Papa'. Nicky heard him, too!"

Nicky nodded his head enthusiastically. "Yup. He said 'Papa', just as good as me!"

_So much for English grammar,_ Emerson thought, listening to Nicky mangle the language. "I'm sure he did, Nicky."

Tia frowned. "Mama, can I ask you a question?" Emerson shifted Alexi, patted her lap, and the little girl made herself comfortable.

"Ask away, baby." Emerson caught the cautionary look from Anushka to her sister. Tia returned the glare. Tia stood and walked to Emerson.

"Mama says I can ask, and I'm gonna!" The little blonde lowered her eyes. "Mikey Davison, his daddy works for the UN, says that Papa's a spy. A bad spy, and that's why he's sick." Emerson felt her blood run cold. The children stopped drawing and looked at her.

_The moment you've been waiting for, Emerson,_ she thought, looking from face to face.

"Well, Mikey is just telling a tale, Tia," she said, hugging the little girl. "The truth is …" she paused, searching for the right words. "Papa is sort of like a policeman, but he doesn't wear a uniform or a badge."

"Does he carry a gun?" Nicky asked, his eyes dancing. "Is he a 'tective, Mama?"

"Yes, Nicky, Papa carries a gun, and he is sort of like a detective."

"Does he chase bad guys?" Tasha asked, worry on her face. "Is that why he's in hospital?"

Emerson sighed. "Sometimes Papa chases the bad guys and sometimes he shoots his gun, too. And, sometimes he gets hurt, which is what happened this time."

"He's not a businessman," Anushka said, her voice thick with accusation. "He's not any of the things you've told us, is he?"

"Law enforcement is a business," Emerson countered, keeping her voice calm and even. "It's a job, just like any other."

Tia sat quietly on Emerson's lap, allowing the baby to hold her fingers. "Are you a policeman, too, Mama?" Another sigh.

"Sometimes, yes," Emerson said, kissing Tia's head. "But, most of the time I work with people who need a little help. I'm sort of a counselor."

"Like a psychiatrist?" Anushka asked, returning to her drawing.

Emerson nodded, grateful for the change in direction. "Sort of, sweetie. That's how I met your Papa. I was helping Uncle 'Pasha and he and Papa are best friends; and we met, fell in love, got married, and here we are!" She smiled at the improbable tale.

Tasha beamed. "It's like a fairy tale!" she said, clapping her hands. "Papa's the prince and Mama's the princess! Just like Sleeping Beauty!"

"Sleeping Beauty was a _girl_," Nicky observed, making at face at his sister.

"I know that, silly," Tasha said, returning the favor. She looked to Emerson for help. "Papa's asleep and you just need to kiss him and wake him up. That's what the handsome prince did for Sleeping Beauty!"

Emerson chuckled at the simple, sweet plan. "I'll try that, Tasha. It might just work." The intercom buzzed.

"Dinner is ready!" Miriam called. "Wash up and come on down!" The kids made a bee line for the bathroom and Emerson tucked Alexi onto her hip.

"Ready for dinner, moj nemnogo odin? (my little one?) Alexi cooed in response.

* * *

Days turned into a week and then two weeks. The vent was removed and Illya did look like he was sleeping. The lab team, under the direction of Missy Allenton, worked on a new formula. His cast was finally removed and the PT girls kept a punishing schedule and Emerson could see the results. Illya showed no signs of posturing. Sindy and Carrie turned him every two hours; Emerson bathed him, and read to him incessantly.

She got up early and had breakfast with the children and managed to be at home waiting for them after school. The kids were the bright spot of her day, filling the dining room with reports on school and more than a little tattling. It gave Emerson the chance to play with them, talk with them, read to them, and tuck them into bed. Then, she returned to Illya's bedside.

Napoleon, Charlie, Alexander, Mark, and April sat with Illya whenever Emerson was away, reading to him, listening to music, and talking about anything and everything. Still, Illya did not awaken from his deep slumber.

In early September, Alexander called Emerson to his office for a chat she knew was coming, but had resisted mightily. She stopped to talk to Kristianna when Waverly appeared at the door.

"I believe that we have an appointment, Emie," he said, frowning at her.

"So we do, Alexander," she answered, pasting a smile on her face. "Lead the way." He stepped aside and motioned her toward a chair at the circular table.

"This is a very difficult to discuss, Emie," Waverly said, instinctively reaching for his pipe.

"Then, let's not discuss it," she said, ignoring his conciliatory tone. He cleared his throat as he tamped tobacco into the bowl of the pipe and struck a match.

"We must discuss Mr. Kuryakin's future care, Emie." She lit a cigarette.

"Charlie seems to think that he's doing well in medical. I see no reason to disrupt the routine we've established." She stood and began to pace the room. Waverly silently shuddered. He was convinced that Emerson would make this as difficult as possible; and he was correct.

"UNCLE Medical Section is not intended for, nor is it equipped to handle, long-term care of chronically ill persons," Waverly said, forging ahead. "Therefore, Emie, I am preparing to order his transfer to another facility." She stopped pacing and wheeled to face him.

"Do not interfere, Alexander."

"I am not interfering, Emie. I am merely making the best decision I am able for his future care and recovery." His pipe smoke wreathed his head. She advanced on him, crushing her cigarette in his ash tray.

"No, Alexander, let's be honest about this, shall we? You're making a decision that is for the good of the Command. It's costing you plenty of money and professional time to have Illya in-house and you want to keep the budget in line." Her face was dead white as it always was when she was beyond angry.

"It makes for poor morale, doesn't it, Alexander; having a severely compromised agent under your own roof? Makes the other agents just a little antsy; makes them wonder about what might happen to them under similar circumstances." She leaned over him, her face mere inches away. "So, we just shuffle Agent Kuryakin into some 'rest home' where nobody will ever see him again. Out of sight, out of mind, right, Alexander?"

His pale blue eyes met her raging dark blue ones. "That will be more than enough, young woman!" He stood, forcing her to retreat slightly. "If it were possible to provide the level of care necessary for Mr. Kuryakin's well-being at UNCLE I would do so without thought to cost or professional demands. He is one of our top agents, and his loss to the Command is sorely felt. You know that, Emie." She stood her ground, crossing her arms and glaring at him. A wry grin replaced the glare.

"Ah, but he's expendable, Alexander. All of us are expendable. All that matters to you, to all of Section 1, is the good of the Command." She quirked a smile. "It's a little late in the game to try and put on the 'his welfare is my chief concern' cloak and make it work." She turned and headed for the door.

"I'll take him home with me and hire staff myself. I will not permit you to send him to some dump under the guise of rehabilitating him and returning him to Section 2." She paused at the open door. "We both know that you aren't planning to do that, Alexander, so let's stop playing this idiotic game and get on with it."

"You are not permitted to remove Mr. Kuryakin from UNCLE, Emerson," Waverly said, his eyes hard as steel. "He is our responsibility and I will make the decisions regarding his placement and his care." She stepped away from the door and walked to his chair standing an arms length from her boss and friend.

"I would suggest, Alexander, that _you_ cooperate with _me_," she said her voice low and angry. "I am his wife and I will make the choices and decisions regarding him. Apparently, you harbor the belief that you own Illya; that because you brought him out of the Soviet, you have ultimate control over his life." She placed her finger against Waverly's tie and pushed lightly. "Permit me to disabuse you of that unfortunate and ill-informed notion. I'm on my way to Medical now to make arrangements. I expect your full cooperation in this matter." She stalked to the door and it closed silently behind her.

Alexander Waverly reached for his phone.

* * *

Charlie was waiting at the bank of elevators. When Emerson emerged, Charlie grabbed her and pulled her into the office.

"Have you lost your fucking mind, Emerson?" Charlie hissed, shoving her friend into a chair. "The Old Man is about this far," she measured less than a hair's breadth between her index finger and thumb, "off your ass! You cannot just sweep in here and wander out with your husband!"

Emerson pushed up from the chair. "I believe that I can, Charlie," she said evenly. "You can either help me or get the hell out of my way. I will not allow Alexander to ship Illya off to some warehouse for the comatose and I can't believe that you would allow it, either!"

Charlie collapsed into her desk chair. "You don't get it Em," she said, running her fingers through her hair in frustration. "Illya needs special attention. He needs Physical Therapy and Occupational Therapy more often than I can order it. He needs specialists to constantly evaluate him and plan for his recovery." She looked at her friend, tears shining in her eyes. "I do not have the staff to take proper care of him! And, whether you are willing to believe it or not, that is precisely what I want for him. I would like nothing better than to keep him here and do everything possible to bring him back. But, I can't and I'm willing to admit it."

Emerson sat heavily in her chair, head in her hands, tears streaming down her face. "If I let Alexander move him to another facility, then I've admitted defeat! I've let Devon-Jones, Angelique, and all of Thrush, win!" She lifted her tear stained face to look at Charlie. "I can't do that to Nikala."

Charlie shook her head. "Listen to yourself, Em. This isn't about Illya at all! It's about protecting your precious ego! It's all about YOU, not about Illya!" She leaned across the desk and frowned at Emerson. "This is not about you, Em. Not in the least little bit! It's about what's best for Illya. Period!"

Emerson fell back in her chair, her hands covering her face. "Jesus Christ, Charlie!" she choked out, her heart pounding in her ears. "What … what am I going to do?" She dropped her hands to her lap, her eyes downcast. "Help me, Charlie. Help Illya. Please."

Charlie was at her side instantly, pulling her into an embrace. She rocked Emerson gently, murmuring to her as if she were an injured child. "Em, I've got the perfect place for Illya; only a few blocks from here. I've sent other Section 2 agents there to recover and they do an incredible job." Emerson's eyes met Charlie's with just a hint of hope. "We've got another 2 weeks max to make some progress before I transfer him." Charlie smiled. "We're going to work like hell to bring him out of this before then, but we'll have to bust our asses and his, too. Bebe and Harry want to stay on until something happens one way or the other. Are you game?"

Emerson hugged her friend and kissed her cheek. "I swear I'll do whatever you ask."

Charlie reached for the phone.

* * *

Emerson washed her face and combed her hair, anxiously awaiting the arrival of Bebe, Harry, April, Mark, and Napoleon. "This sounds like the plan of a mad scientist, Charlie," she said, pouring a mug of Medical Section coffee.

Charlie chuckled. "It is, Emerson. Missy and the lab team have come up with a new formula … untried, but we have nowhere else to turn."

"What are you waiting for?"

"Permission, Em. Like I said, this is untried." Emerson frowned, her mind weighing the benefits and consequences.

"Do it." Charlie frowned.

"Em, it may not work. We may do more damage than is already done. We might kill him." Emerson shook her head and sat down.

"He would not want to live like this." She sipped her coffee and made a face. "Don't tell me that you just made this sludge!" Charlie grinned. "Look, no matter what happens … it can't be any worse than this."

The door to the medical conference room opened and the team filed in. "Are you up for this, Em?" Harry asked, nodding when he noticed her grin. "You are; good!"

April sat on the edge of the large oval table and frowned. "For those of us completely out of the loop, a little information would be greatly appreciated." Mark agreed.

"Dr. Allenton and the lab team, using the information gleaned during Napoleon's most recent interrogation of Miss DuChein, have tweaked the original formula," Harry explained. "Harry and I believe that Illya has slipped into a dissociative state aided by Miss DuChein's cocktail of drugs," Bebe said, sitting at the head of the table. "Due to the extreme circumstances Illya faced in this assignment, it clearly applicable to Illya's situation."

"Miss DuChein introduced BZ to Illya through food and drink, things he could not live without. At the same time, Illya's basic conditioning, when coupled with the intensive conditioning instilled just prior to this assignment, created a dissonance," Bebe said, watching the faces of her audience for signs of comprehension.

"We are aware of the facts that Illya was managing competing interests in tension throughout this lengthy assignment. On the professional level, he was assigned to manipulate the man who, in many respects, fulfilled something of a father figure role at a specific time in Illya's life. On the personal level, Illya was leaving behind everything and everyone he depended upon to ground his very existence. His friend and partner, Napoleon, his boss and mentor, Alexander Waverly, his cohort of April and Mark and other agents, his friends, and, most importantly, his wife and children." The group glanced at one another, understanding to some small degree the inordinate pressures Illya had suffered.

"Simultaneously, Miss DuChein introduced BZ which, when added to everything else I've enumerated, set the stage for our present situation." Bebe paused and sipped her coffee. "Illya's brain chemistry was radically changed multiple times in a relatively short period of time. His basic conditioning, one that he shares with all Section 2 agents, requires him to dissociate in order to be effective in any given situation. In this case, that basic conditioning came into violent conflict with the drugs administered by Miss DuChein." She glanced at Harry who nodded.

"The problem we are presently concerned with is a direct result of several events … sort of like a line domino's falling in a neat, orderly pattern," Harry said.

"There's been nothing neat or orderly in this," Emerson said, frowning at the analogy. "In fact, I'm missing the pattern entirely."

"So did we, for the past few weeks," Harry admitted. "Let's start from his rescue. Illya ends up in UNCLE Medical where his physical injuries are immediately managed and plans are set in place for deprogramming. Lab tests … blood and urine specifically … shows some curious anomalies but, under these rather extraordinary circumstances, we decided they were simply a result of the conditioning." Harry opened Illya's file and flipped rapidly through the pages. "Napoleon's interviews with Angelique, but especially those with Dr. Sherrill, revealed the use of BZ. That revelation caused Dr. Charles to order a liver enzyme panel which showed the concentration of the drug." He smiled at Charlie. "Good work, Charlie." She smiled.

"So, we got the team together, did the research, and came up with what seemed to be the perfect antidote; and it was, except for one rather small thing." Harry paused expectantly. "Angelique did 'tweak' the formula; sufficiently to kick Illya's dissociative programming into overdrive."

"How so?" Emerson asked, leaning forward, her coffee mug forgotten.

"Near the end of our session, when his lab results were improving rapidly, we noticed that he was unable to provide answers to the simplest of questions; questions that I had posed at the beginning of the session to provide a baseline," Harry recalled.

"His name, position at UNCLE, and the personal information," Napoleon explained.

"In fact, he missed every question. Granted, he was close, and it was tempting to write off the errors to exhaustion, the competition of the remaining BZ and the antidote, and hypoglycemia, but, considering the ensuing events we realize that Illya was dissociating … protecting himself from some threat that only his sub-conscious perceived."

Charlie took up the thread. "The evening he lost consciousness, Illya experienced one bout of nausea and vomiting, some Tachycardia that resolved with rest, increased temperature, and frequent urination. We expected all of it, and acted accordingly. He was more than stable and we considered these events simply the 'last hurrah' of the BZ. We believe that he was, at some level, aware of his weakening condition and, when he experienced cardio-respiratory failure, the dissociating programming rose to dominance." Charlie sighed. "In other words, friends, he's protecting himself with a little help from Angelique's chemistry experiment."

"Illya thinks that we're trying to kill him?" Mark asked. "He'd never fall for that!"

Bebe smiled at the British agent. "Under most other circumstances, Mark, you would be correct; however, Angelique's refined BZ formula included an element that would cause psychosis under extreme circumstances." She spread her hands. "The final 'domino', to use Harry's analogy, fell into place. The psychosis convinced Illya that in order to save himself, he must shut down … dissociate until things settle and he's able to rouse himself."

Napoleon's face darkened. "How do we convince him otherwise?"

"We hope … how's that for clinical reasoning?" Charlie grinned and the group chuckled. "We hope that the new formula will begin to reverse the psychosis and awaken those brain centers that will invite Illya to drop his protective measures." Bebe nodded.

"We're going to administer the drug and then engage in some intense talk therapy." The Section 2 team exchanged confused glances.

"How is that going to work, Bebe?" Napoleon asked. "Illya doesn't respond to anything, much less talk."

"I understand the confusion. All of you," she pointed to April, Mark, and Napoleon, "will saturate Illya with information from Section 2. You will read reports to him, talk to him about what's going on, on going assignments. You will seek his counsel and make sure that he knows how critical he is to the workings of Section 2." She was relieved to see their faces brighten. "Alex … Mr. Waverly … will also participate. I want all of you to spend time with him. Stimulate him until he has no choice but to participate."

Emerson spoke. "I'm willing to try anything at this point. We're up against the deadline set by Waverly; if we don't make extraordinary progress in the next week, he's going to sign the order to transfer Illya's care to a rehab center."

April stood and smiled at Emerson. "Let's go get the Russian." Napoleon and Mark followed her out the door.

Dr. Melissa Allenton's hand shook just a little as she injected the first of the formula into Illya's IV tubing. For all of her scientific training, she found herself wishing, hoping, for a positive outcome. Charlie watched the monitors and sighed. Harry grinned.

"What say we give it a few minutes, Charlie, before we write it off?" He chuckled at her impatience.

"Sorry, Harry, I just want results yesterday … or last week … or from the start of this fiasco." She checked her watch. "What do you think, Missy, fifteen minutes or so?"

Missy nodded. "At least that long, Charlie. Harry and I expect to see some changes in his EEG first, so keep an eye on that read out."

Twenty minutes later Harry was all smiles. "Look, his brain is beginning to switch on. Alpha waves are strengthening." He nodded to Charlie. "Call in the troops.

Napoleon, Mark, and April arrived, arms filled with files and notes. "Are we ready?" April asked, still more than a little unnerved at seeing Illya so incredibly still.

"Start talking," Harry said. "I want to hear communicator sounds, telephones, pages flipping, and a running commentary on UNCLE worldwide."

The three friends and colleagues began their assault with all the vigor of an attack on a Thrush command center. Mark called Communications and then left his pen open and resting on Illya's pillow so he could hear the sound and conversation of the Section.

Two hours into the experiment, April's voice was getting raspy and her feet hurt from pacing the room. She kicked off her shoes and leaned down to Illya. "Come on, Illya, you're wearing me out!"

There was no discernable response.

_Why do they continue to annoy me?_ Illya's brain raged. _I wrote the report on Istanbul. Why does Napoleon drone on about it? And, Mark's constant commentary about the London office … assignments of which I have neither knowledge nor interest!_

The next morning, Emerson watched as Alexander Waverly entered the room. "Mr. Kuryakin," he said his voice like iron, "I have a team in trouble." Waverly pulled his pipe from his pocket and filled it with fresh tobacco. Mark offered a light, and the pungent odor of Isle of Dog #22 wafted over Illya's bed. "Mr. Davidson and Miss Albers are in Paris planning an assault within hours, but there is disagreement about the strategy."

_Davidson is an idiot,_ Illya railed, creases forming on his brow. _Albers should be running the assignment. And, I despise your pipe tobacco!_

Harry chuckled. "Keep at it," he said, pointing to the EEG read out. "He's becoming annoyed."

"With respect, sir, Mr. Kuryakin does not appreciate your choice of pipe tobacco," Mark explained.

"And, I fully understand that, Mr. Slate," Waverly said returning his attentions to Illya. "As I was saying, Mr. Kuryakin, Agents Davidson and Albers are in a bit of a disagreement with the Paris office. Miss Albers wishes to employ a small team to salt the building with explosives set to detonate after Thrush personnel have been removed." The elderly man paused, glancing at Harry, who nodded his encouragement.

_Albers is an excellent demolitions agent. Give her free rein. Call in Davidson before he makes a mess of things!_ The frown deepened.

"At any rate, M. Michele LeClerc is refusing permission. Since he is head of the UNCLE office there, and I wish to maintain good relations with the Paris office, I am loath to over ride him. Your suggestions, please."

_LeClerc is an even more of an idiot! Make certain that he is left in the building!_

Napoleon gestured to Harry and the two men walked to the hallway.

"Harry, I'm sure that you're right, that he's making progress. The frown alone is pure Kuryakin."

"I am and he is."

"Are you game to let me try something … something I'm sure will get some response from him?" Harry shrugged.

"I don't see why not. We're giving the formula every hour and things are changing, but if you've got a plan that will speed things along … go for it." Napoleon's worried look changed to a feral grin and Harry's flesh crawled. For all of his time at UNCLE, Harry hadn't quite come to terms with the ruthlessness that ran just beneath the surface. Napoleon called his colleagues and boss into the hallway.

"I want everybody out," Napoleon said softly. "Just Illya and me." Waverly frowned.

"Mr. Solo …"

"Sorry, sir," Napoleon hurriedly explained, "if my idea is to work I need to set the scene." Waverly glanced at Harry who nodded his agreement.

"Very will, Mr. Solo. What do you require?"

Within an hour, Illya's room was equipped with tape recorded gun fire and explosions. Concrete dust swirled in the air and spent cartridges added the unmistakable scent of cordite. Charlie provided clothing from the Emergency Department that smelled of blood and sweat. Mark retrieved his communicator and joined April, Waverly, Harry, Charlie, Bebe, and Emerson in the observation room. Napoleon flipped off the lights and had the monitors set on mute.

"IK, we've got to get out of here!" Napoleon's voice was breathless and low. "Angelique … you know what she wants to do you. She wants to pick your brain and leave you a blithering idiot." He gripped Illya's arm and tugged. "Come on, tovarisch!"

_Angelique! _Illya remembered his 'conversation' with her, remembered her 'protection' while he was with Devon-Jones. He pulled against Napoleon's painful grip. Charlie hugged Emerson.

"Illya, you've got to help me. If she catches us … if she catches you … she'll kill us!"

_Escape! We must escape!_ Illya remembered Sherrill and he remembered Angelique and her desire to retrieve the EHD information no matter the cost. His right hand went instinctively to his left side, reaching for the UNCLE Special he expected to find.

"It's working," Harry said his eyes lively with excitement. Napoleon grabbed Illya and pulled him up, leaning Illya's body heavily against him.

"IK, I'm hurt … you've got to help me!" Napoleon's voice was raw and he grabbed a bloody shirt and shoved it under Illya's nose. Illya pulled away at the scent.

"Come on; let's get the hell out of here." Harry's breath caught when Napoleon drew his gun and chambered a round.

"What the hell is he doing?"

"Rescuing his partner," April explained, casting a glance at the Boss. "With respect, sir, … nothing … not the target, not the mission, nothing is more important that your partner, Harry."

Napoleon touched the cold, rough surface of the pistol grip to Illya's cheek. "Come on, Illya. I need you to help me out here." Illya stiffened and Napoleon glanced up. "Angelique and her crew will be looking for us and we need to make tracks."

Illya's head lolled back and Napoleon held him closer. "Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin!" Napoleon shouted. "Just this once, follow my orders, okay?" Illya's eyelids fluttered and Napoleon increased his grip. "You damn well better cooperate with me or I'll leave your skinny, Russian ass for Angelique!" He lowered his head to rest on Illya's. "You don't want that, do you?"

"Nyet!" was the soft but emphatic reply. The hazy blue eyes blinked open.

* * *

Information regarding Mordechai Arielewicz and Mira Fuchrer (Valley, Part 1) from Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia.

Information on BZ from "3-Quinuclidinyl benzilate" and its use by espionage agencies ('Project MKULTRA') from Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia.


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